_Live From Cape Canaveral_ - Jay Barbree [98]
Mission Control kept up its steady monitoring, telling the pilots everything was “Go!”
No one knew the fiery blowtorch far below the crew cabin was already ripping apart the right booster while the crew worked smoothly, flawlessly.
“Roger, go at throttle up,” reported Scobee. His steady voice amazed the world audience.
Suddenly a sheet of intense flame swept swiftly over Mike Smith’s window.
The pilot’s seat was on the right side of Challenger, nearest to the disintegrating booster rocket. In whatever instant of time was available to Mike Smith, he knew something terrible was happening. He had just enough time to utter, “Uh-oh!”
TWENTY-TWO
What Happened?
Flames from inside the booster rocket had escaped through the failed O-ring seal. They enlarged the small opening and grew into a monstrous blowtorch. The torch then slashed through the lower half of the external fuel tank that stored the liquid hydrogen. The lower half collapsed, with the entire tank following in swift disintegration.
The bottom strut attached to the right booster had broken away. The blazing rocket had swiveled on its upper strut and had sent its nose crashing through the skin of the tank. That had freed liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen to mix disastrously and ignite.
Where there had been only cold blue sky pierced by bright flame atop a climbing white smoke trail, there grew a hellish fireball. No explosion, just an instantly growing monster of fire where metal tore, where it shattered into burning jagged debris that would continue to climb before tumbling and cartwheeling through curving arcs until gravity commanded its downward fall.
Nearby, two corkscrew spears of white smoke spun twisting paths even higher, the rocket boosters flaming out of control. The instant fire in the sky continued to expand in a scattering of flaming debris, creating hundreds of burning and twisting fingers of smoke that appeared to be running from the terrible blast.
While eyes were focused on the burning chunks of Challenger fluttering and whirling toward the ocean, a hairline streak of red arched up and then over in a curving line. It would be long remembered. Challenger’s crew vessel with its seven astronauts was fleeing the flames and devastation.
In this ghastly moment, the very air over America’s spaceport burned. Thunder echoed and boomed downward. It kept echoing and booming for the longest minutes. We were hearing Challenger breaking and shredding itself into hundreds, then thousands, possibly millions of pieces while beneath this sky of ominous groans, thin wailing cries and screams rolled upward from Earth to where Challenger died.
Inside Mission Control near Houston, NASA commentator Steve Nesbitt followed his flight-mission script. He kept up his litany of progress, reporting the main engines were now burning at their full thrust of 104 percent. He continued to read his prepared notes to match flight times and progress. He was simply unaware of what had happened to Challenger.
“One minute and fifteen seconds, velocity two thousand nine hundred feet per second, altitude nine nautical miles, downrange distance seven nautical miles.”
Nearby, a flight controller gestured frantically. Nesbitt turned to see where the controller was pointing with such agitation. He stopped reading, disbelief gripping him like a giant fist. He was staring slack-jawed at the expanding fire cloud on the huge television screen before him, at the twisting smoke trails, and the flotsam of burning debris raining toward the ocean.
He slumped into his chair, embarrassed, and afraid for the crew. Most of them were his friends, and Steve Nesbitt was above all else a gentleman and a professional. He hurt as if the weight of Earth had been dropped in his lap.
Tears started crowding into his eyes, but he was on duty. Nesbitt still had his job to do. He shook off the helpless feeling, rallied his senses, and keyed his microphone. “Flight controllers here are looking very carefully