The Mammoth Book of Space Exploration and Disasters

Slowly, gently, the 12 trained attendants rolled the Skyrocket up a ramp onto a 13-foot-long “mother” trailer. When the ship’s propellants were once aboard, hoses from pressurized tanks on the trailer continously would feed nitrogen through the rocket engine until the exact moment of flight, to prevent an accidental accumulation of propellants in the combustion chamber, which could result in a highly explosive start. The ship was aboard the trailer; a canopy overhead would protect the Skyrocket and her entourage from the searing morning sun; another form of protection was in one corner, a shower in the event the volatile liquids accidentally sprayed on to the crew members. To safeguard the plane with its explosive load of propellant (a drop of raw hydrogen peroxide is enough to burn a hole in a concrete floor) an intricate system of fire hoses using fog and straight stream was supplied from a 700-gallon water tank, just part of the crowd of equipment utilizing every inch of the huge conveyance. She was ready for the important and dangerous job of fueling that would begin early in the following morning.

“What time are we due back here?” one of the mechanics asked.

Carder appeared beside the trailer. The project coordinator answered, “I think we can make it at two o’clock this time, boys. Sunup is getting later with the fall coming on. That’ll give us enough time. Dawn is scheduled for five-forty-five tomorrow.”

Some of the crew members moaned, “That’s a break, another hour’s sleep.”

“Well, as they warned us in Santa Monica, join in a research program for adventure. Live a little.” The mechanic slapped his complaining companion on the back. “You’re making history, boy.”

The lead man announced, “We’ll come in at two and top off the tanks.” The group dispersed into the coming darkness. The Skyrocket was left deserted in its awkward position, clamped to the bed of the trailer.

Surely I couldn’t have been sleeping more than an hour when the thin, steady, high whistling began. It was as if a strong stream of wind were trapped somewhere, trying to escape. I sat up in the darkness, my mind groping to respond to whatever alarm it might be, and as I came in focus, I could hear no other sound. Obviously no emergency. I fell asleep once more but with the steady, shrill whistle still wailing over the field.

The alarm jarred me awake, signaling that the flight procedure would begin. It was dark and once more I heard the chilling whistle floating over the base, unbroken and piercing.

I made my way toward the Douglas hangar through the empty streets of the sleeping base. The whistle became louder as I drew near the Skyrocket. The eerie scream came out of the weird plane! Tightened, tensed – the explosive fuels oozing slowly into her sides, it was the Skyrocket that emitted the frightened, tortured whine. The men who had been feeding the Skyrocket her fuel at precision rates for the last three hours wore hoods with glass face-plates, specially made plastic overalls, and heavy gloves to protect their bodies from the volatile fuels as they tended the white, frosted lines and hose connecting the mother trailer to the embryo ship.

Into the underbelly of the airplane the minus-297-degree-below-zero liquid oxygen was introduced into one of the large twin tanks that sit two inches apart from each other. If the liquid oxygen should be contaminated, it would blow the plane, trailer, crew and spectators off the desert floor. It had to be fed carefully. Once in the tank, the liquid oxygen boiled off continuously at one pound a minute, forming gases that escaped through small orifices in the top of the fuselage. As the stuff steamed off it caused the sustained, early hour whistling, the weird shriek I heard early this morning. Once the oxygen was at the precise level in the tanks it had to be kept there – as it boiled off the top the exact amount of oxygen was replenished through the hose connected to the supply tank on the trailer. Thus, the necessity of the mother vehicle, in order that the lines trending the rocket propellant could remain functioning and undisturbed while the plane was being transported across the eight-mile dry lake to the position where it was to be released for flight. All the while the gauges reading pressures in the various operations were watched as cautiously as those in a surgery. Less painstakingly, the other hooded members of the crew moved quickly and quietly around the still bird, filling the other big tank with alcohol. The liquid oxygen and alcohol are stored side by side in the twin tanks separated from each other by a thin aluminum vapor seal. A rubber-like compound is used as caulking to prevent any leakage between the compartment.