Nick Carter - Operation Moon Rocket

At 12:01:04 p.m. est, technicians watching a TV monitor at Pad 39 saw flames leap up around Commander Albers' couch on the right side of the cabin.

At 12:01:14 p.m. a voice from inside the capsule cried: "Fire in the spacecraft!"

At 12:01:20 p.m. those watching the TV monitor saw Colonel Liscombe trying to free himself from his safety harness. He twisted forward from his couch, glanced down toward the right. A voice, presumably his, shouted: "Pipe's been cut… Glycol leaking…" (The rest garbled.)

At 12:01:28 p.m. Lieutenant Commander Albers' telemetered heart rate shot up. He could be seen covered with flames. A voice, thought to be his, screamed: "Get us out of here… we're burning up…"

At 12:01:29 p.m. a wall of fire shot up, blotting the scene from view. TV monitors went dark. Cabin pressure and heat quickly rose. No other intelligible communications were received, though screams of pain were heard.

At 12:01:32 p.m. cabin pressure reached twenty-nine pounds per square inch. The spacecraft was ruptured by the pressure. Technicians standing on a level with the craft's windows saw a blinding flash. Heavy smoke began to seep from the capsule. Members of the gantry crew sprinted across the catwalk leading to the craft, tried desperately to loosen the hatch cover. They were driven back by the intense heat and smoke.

Inside the capsule the effect was that of a fierce wind springing up. White-hot air roared through the rupture, enveloping the astronauts in a cocoon of bright fire, shriveling them up like insects in a heat estimated at more than two thousand degrees…

The voice in the darkened room said, "Quick thinking by the gantry-crew chief prevented a tragedy of even greater dimensions."

A picture flashed on the screen and Hammer found himself staring into his own face. "This is Patrick J. Hammer," the TV news commentator continued, "a Connelly Aviation Company technician, forty-eight years old, a father of three. While others stood frozen, immobilized by horror, he had the presence of mind to press the control button that triggered the launching escape system…"

"Look! Look! It's Daddy!" piped the innocent, reed-thin voices in the darkness behind him. Hammer winced. Automatically his eyes swept the room, checking the double-bolted door, the drawn blinds. He heard his wife say, "Shush, babies. Let's listen…"

The TV commentator was pointing now to a diagram of the Apollo-Saturn 5. "The escape system is designed to catapult the capsule to a parachute landing clear of the pad in case of an emergency during lift-off. Although the action was unable to save the astronauts, Hammer's quick thinking kept the fire in the capsule from spreading to the third-stage rocket below the Lunar Module. If it had spread, the thunderous combustion of eight and a half million gallons of refined kerosene and liquid oxygen would have destroyed the entire Kennedy Space Center, plus the surrounding communities of Port Canaveral, Cocoa Beach and Rockledge…"

"Mommy, I'm tired. Let's go to bed." It was Timmy, his youngest, just turned four that Saturday.

Hammer hunched forward, staring at the TV set in the cluttered front room of his Cocoa Beach bungalow. His rimless glasses glittered. The perspiration stood out on his forehead. His eyes clung desperately to the TV commentator's face, but it was Colonel Liscombe who looked back at him, grinning, handing him the match…

The filthy smell of burning iron and paint filled the room. The walls bent in toward him like a huge blister. A great sheet of flame spread past him and Liscombe's face melted before his eyes, leaving only scorched, roasting flesh crawling with heat blisters, eyes bursting within a calcinated skull, the reek of burning bones…

"Pat, what's wrong?"

His wife was leaning over him, her face pale and drawn. He must have cried out. He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. She didn't know. He could never tell her.

Suddenly the telephone rang. He jumped. He'd been expecting it all night. "I'll get it," he said. The commentator was saying, "Nine hours after the tragic event, investigators are still sifting through the charred debris…"

It was Hammer's boss, Pete Rand, the launching crew supervisor. "Better come in, Pat," he said. His voice sounded funny. "There are a couple of questions…"

Hammer nodded, closing his eyes. It had only been a matter of time. Colonel Liscombe had yelled, "Pipe's been cut." Cut, not broken, and Hammer knew why, could see the case containing his polaroid glasses lying there next to the solder dust and the Teflon shavings.

He had been a good American, a loyal employee of Connelly Aviation for fifteen years. He had worked hard, risen from the ranks, taken pride in his work. He had hero-worshipped the astronauts who had ridden his handiwork into space. And then — because he loved his family — he had joined the commonwealth of the vulnerable, the exposed.

"Yes, all right." Hammer said it quietly, his hand shielding the mouthpiece. "I want to talk about it. But I need help. I need police protection."

The voice at the other end sounded surprised. "Okay, Pat, sure. That can be arranged."

"I want them to guard my wife and kids," said Hammer. "I'm not leaving the house until they get here."

He put the receiver down and stood there, his hand shaking. Sudden fear twisted his stomach. He had committed himself — but there was no other way. He glanced at his wife. Timmy had fallen asleep in her lap. He could see the boy's tousled blond hair wedged between the couch and her elbow. "They want me at work," he said vaguely. "I'll have to go in."

The front doorbell's muted chimes rang. "At this hour?" she said. "Who could it be?"

"I asked the police to stop by."

"Police?"

Strange how fear telescoped time. It seemed less than a minute ago that he'd been on the phone. He walked over to the window, cautiously parted the Venetian blinds. The dark sedan at the curb had a dome light on the roof, a whip antenna on the side. The three men on the front stoop were in uniform, with holstered weapons on their hips. He opened the door.

The one in the lead was big, browned from the sun, with light carrot-colored hair brushed straight back and an affable grin on his face. He wore a blue shirt, bow tie and riding breeches and carried a white crash helmet under his arm. "Howdy," he drawled. "Your name Hammer?" Hammer was staring at the uniform. He didn't recognize it. "We're county officers," the redhead explained. "The NASA people gave us a call…"

"Oh, okay, fine." Hammer stepped aside to let them in.

The man directly behind the redhead was short, lean, dark, with dead gray eyes. A deep scar encircled his neck. He had a towel wrapped around his right hand. Hammer glanced at him with sudden alarm. Then he saw the five-gallon drum of gasoline the third policeman was holding. His eyes darted to the man's face. His mouth wrenched open. He knew at that moment that he had begun to die. The features beneath the white crash helmet were flat, with high cheekbones and slanting eyes.

The syringe in the redhead's hand spat out a long needle with a tiny sigh of escaping air. Hammer gave a grunt of pain and surprise. His left hand flew to his arm, fingers clawing at the sharp agony embedded in the tortured muscle. Then he slowly toppled forward.

His wife screamed, tried to rise from the couch. The man with the scarred neck came through the room like a wolf, his mouth wet and gleaming. An ugly straight-edge razor protruded from the towel. As the blade flashed down, she threw herself across the children. Blood sprang from the savage red gash that he drew across her larynx, choking off her scream. The children weren't fully awake. Their eyes were open, but still blurred with sleep. They died quickly, silently, without a struggle.