Free Shanghaied to the Moon by Michael J. Daley Page A

to be a pilot, don’t you? This is the way. What other kid can get his hands on the controls of a real shuttle, huh?”
    â€œI haven’t touched the controls!”
    â€œLong journey ahead. It’ll happen.” He completes the checklist without my help. “Lean back.”
    The big green digits on the countdown clock light up.
    10-9-8-
    The instruments come alive as the FlightComp makes the final check—last chance to scrub if anything is wrong.
    5-4-
    Strong vibrations as the turbo pumps kick on. I clench my right hand into a fist. Clamp my jaw in expectation …
    2-1-
    IGNITION
    The power of the rocket motor slams through the ancient frame. Metal creaks and strains as the thrust builds. A support strut moans right next to my ear. The invisible hand of acceleration squeezes my chest again. I sink deeper into the padded seat. My hand isn’t hurting. I’m going to be okay this time.
    I glance sideways. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are all scrunched up. Looks like he’s in pain, then I realize he’s grinning with the same moronic joy I felt flying through middeck.
    I want that! Close my eyes. Pretend. A real spaceship! Heading for the stars! The cockpit of a sporty Comet Catcher …
    Impossible. New rattles and bangs shiver the hull and grow louder every second. Sounds like I have my ear against a pipe and a hundred maniacs are hammering on it. The ship is going to fall apart! Need that space suit. Need it to stop!
    IGNITION PLUS 40.
    Halfway through the burn. The thrust piles on, like shovelfuls of sand. The green numbers fade. A darkness spreads behind my eyes. A sense of danger. Of something nightmarish. I don’t want to go there. I mustn’t.
    I feel another scream starting to build. It’s got nothing to do with pain this time. It’s pure scared trying to get out. I can’t disgrace myself again. I jam a fist to my mouth, bite down on a finger.
    Just when I think I can’t hold the scream back any longer, the acceleration ceases. The blackness flies away, taking the fear with it. The center monitor tells us:
    IGNITION PLUS 81
    VELOCITY CONSTANT
    TRANSLUNAR INJECTION COMPLETED
    Nick of time. Never thought I’d be such a wimp.

8
    MISSION TIME
    T plus 02:01:08
    THE soft click of keys draws my attention. The old spacer asks for a status report. In front of me, #3 monitor shows all systems green. Kind of amazing, considering the sounds this tub made.
    He says, “ Old Glory’s no Valadium Thruster, but she’ll get us there.”
    This derelict doesn’t even come close to the power of the Lance Ramjet. I’m ashamed to think how I boasted to him about wanting to feel those engines. I barely got through this burn. A stinking space shuttle …
    Maybe it’s just the situation, this whole day. Got me rattled. Wasn’t he worried about shock?
    â€œ Old Glory ? Didn’t they call the flag that once?”
    â€œWho says I named her for the flag? Maybe it’s for when she rode fire from Earth. Maybe it’s for me. Lot of old glory around here, kid.”
    â€œLot of old, that’s for sure.”
    Bing bing bing.
    The alarm sounds gentle, so you aren’t scared to death, but both of us freeze for a heartbeat.
    Then he’s all head motions, searching the consoles for a red light. Me, too, but most of the lights don’t mean anything to me.
    Bing bing bing.
    â€œThere!” He jabs the flashing red button and a 3-D graphic of the shuttle—complete with wing holes—flickers onto #1 monitor in front of him. The graph shows the hull surfaces, shaded to indicate temperature differences. Frosty purple underside. Yellows, reds, and white—superhot!—topside.
    Something’s really wrong! The hull should be a uniform temperature; orange all over.
    Bing bing bing.
    He toggles on #2 monitor in the center of the console. It displays the temperature map for the cargo bay. The tanks are white as