_Live From Cape Canaveral_ - Jay Barbree [29]
John Glenn leaves for the launch pad. (NASA).
The media gathered at Cape Canaveral’s press mound for John Glenn’s orbital flight. Inside its broadcast trailer, the NBC team is on the air. Left to right: news manager Russ Tornabene, correspondent Jay Barbree, and correspondent Merrill Mueller. (Barbree Collection).
Again, Merrill Mueller and I were at the NBC microphones, and when possible, we carried the voices from the blockhouse and Mercury Control live on our worldwide networks.
It was perfect radio. Launch-team members’ voices were in pure harmony.
“Status check,” O’Malley barked into his lip mike, his words carried to the headset of every member of his team. He had to know if all the Atlas-Mercury systems were ready.
“Pressurization?” his sharp clear voice demanded.
“Go.”
“Lox tanking?” O’Malley needed to know if the liquid oxygen tank was filled, if there was enough to oxidize the fuel to get Glenn in orbit.
“I have a blinking high-level light.”
O’Malley also knew the signal was false. “You are go,” O’Malley snapped.
“Range operations?”
“Go for launch.” All tracking stations were in the green.
“Mercury capsule?”
“Go.”
“All pre-start panels are correct,” O’Malley acknowledged. “The ready light is on. Eject Mercury umbilical.”
“Mercury umbilical clear.”
“All recorders to fast,” T. J. ordered. “T-minus eighteen seconds and counting. Engine start!”
“You have a firing signal,” astronaut Scott Carpenter told his friend John Glenn from the blockhouse.
O’Malley’s boss, B. G. MacNabb, came on the line. He spoke directly to the altar boy: “May the wee ones be with you, Thomas.” O’Malley managed a quick smile. He’d take the luck of the wee ones anytime. He’d been praying all day, and the tough test conductor crossed himself. “Good Lord, ride all the way,” he said prayerfully.
“GOD SPEED, JOHN GLENN!” The call boomed deep from the heart of Scott Carpenter. A quick nod of acknowledgment between O’Malley and Carpenter, and Scott began racking down the final seconds of the count.
“Ten,
Nine,
Eight,
Seven,
Six,
Five,
Four,
Three,
Two,
One…
Zero!”
The voices fell silent. Atlas was ablaze on its pad, flame pouring from its mighty engines, the vibration trembling John Glenn’s voice.
“Uh…rog-ger…the clock is operating…We’re underway….”
Atlas was now a monolith of flame and gleaming silver with Glenn and his black Mercury spaceship resting on thick ice from the super-cold fuels beneath it, the red escape tower standing above all, pointing the way into a welcoming blue sky.
Flaming thrust pushed the rocket and spacecraft stack toward orbit. The autopilot ticked away the commands, and Atlas and Mercury obeyed as Glenn reported, “We’re programming in roll okay.”
People. A million of them were on highways and beaches, atop buildings, and on streets. Atlas rolled thunder from its mighty throat as it pushed steadily upward and the onlookers went mad—a million voices shouting, cheering, and crying.
Tremendous air pressure squeezed Atlas, buffeted the big rocket, hammered against its steel belt strengthening its thin skin, rattled and shook the machine. It was every pilot’s old friend Max Q, and the marine along for the ride called Alan Shepard, his CapCom, short for capsule communicator, who was located in Mercury Control.
“It’s a little bumpy along here.”
Climbing out of Max Q, the engines were increased in thrust and power. Every second they burned fuel they reduced Atlas’s weight. Then, a little more than two minutes into the flight, the two booster engines were done—they burned out and fell away with the rocket’s rear skirt. This trimmed Atlas to one remaining main engine, called the sustainer.
Friendship Seven was over one hundred miles high and still climbing when