Some fifty years ago as a cub reporter, Barbree caught space fever the night that Sputnik passed over Albany, Georgia. On a double date where the couples actually did some star gazing, Barbree recognized that exploring space would become one of the most important stories of the century. Convinced that one day astronauts would walk on the moon, Barbree moved to the then sleepy ocean—side community of Cocoa Beach, right outside Cape Canaveral, and began reporting on rockets that soared, exploded, and fizzled.

In the decades to come he witnessed a parade of history as space pioneers, hucksters, groupies and politicians participated in the greatest show of technology the world had ever seen. Besides many untold and amusing anecdotes — quite a few involving astronaut pranks, fast cars, swimming pools, and strong drinks — Barbree reveals the horror visited on the Cape when Apollo 1 burned, when the Challenger exploded and when Columbia broke into pieces.

A warts and all account, this book nevertheless carries a compassionate and positive message. The men and women who conquered space were colorful and sometimes larger than life. They partied, got angry, made mistakes and committed their share of sins. But they were also genuine heroes with great commitment and love of country. With humor, insight and unmatched experience, Barbree brings them and the ever—changing world of the space program to vivid life.

Sputnik

In 1957, Cape Canaveral was the most vital and most intensely exciting place in the country. It offered cutting-edge technology in a time of nineteen-cent-a-gallon gasoline, nickel Cokes, two-bit drive-in movies, and the hit of the television season Leave It To Beaver. It was a time when doors went unlocked, when virgins married, when divorce ruined your social standing, and when folks spent their lives working for the same company with the promise of lifelong retirement checks.

In 1957 few that walked this planet reflected on the fact they were actually inhabitants of a mortal spaceship eight thousand miles in diameter, circling one of the universe's 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 (ten to the twenty-fourth) stars at 67,062 miles per hour.

However, two groups of men and women—given the era, it was mostly men—were actually consumed, day and night, by the realities that we were all astronauts living on spaceship Earth. One group worked in the United States at Alabama's Redstone arsenal; the other busied itself in a Soviet hamlet called Baikonur on the steppes of Kazakhstan.

Like the American group, the Russians developed and worked on machines to lift nuclear warheads and stuff off our planet, and on the evening of October 4, 1957, one of their creations, a large white rocket called R–7, was being fueled for what some would call the single most important event of the twentieth century. Nearby, inside a steel-lined concrete bunker, an intense middle-aged man named Sergei Korolev was at work. His job, as the chief rocket engineer for the USSR, was to orchestrate the stop-and-go countdown. But unlike his American counterpart, Wernher von Braun, Korolev had the full blessing and support of his country's communist government.

While Korolev had been chasing the goal of space flight at breakneck speed, Dr. von Braun had been pleading with President Dwight David Eisenhower to let him launch an Earth satellite. Only the year before, von Braun had moved his rocket and satellite to its launch pad without permission. He was going to launch it anyway, pretending that the satellite accidentally went into orbit. But Lieutenant Colonel Asa Gibbs, Cape Canaveral's commander, ordered the satellite launcher returned to its hangar. Colonel Gibbs cared more about his ass and making full colonel than he did history.

Now, with von Braun's rocket in storage, Sergei Korolev's R–7 was fueled, and his launch team was ready to send a satellite into orbit and send Russia into the history books.

"Gotovnosty dyesyat minut."

Ten minutes.

Steel braces that held the rocket in place were folded down, and the last power cables between Earth and the rocket fell away.

"Tri...

"Dva...

"Odin..."

"Zashiganive!"

Ignition!

Flame created a monstrous sea of fire. It ripped into steel and concrete and blew away the night. It sent orange daylight rolling across the steppes of Kazakhstan, quickly followed by a thunderous train of sound that shook all that stood within its path.

R–7 climbed from its self-created daylight on legs of flaming thrust and soon appeared as if it were an elongated star racing across a black sky. It fled from view and left darkness to once again swallow its launch pad as it became just another distant star over the Aral Sea.

While others strained to see the final flicker of the rocket, Korolev was interested only in the readouts. He sat transfixed by the tracking information streaming into the control room. The data were perfect. He was intently interested in each engine's shutdown. Separation of each stage had to be clean. And when the world's first man-made satellite slipped into Earth orbit, he permitted...

Barbree has covered the space race since Sputnik, as a correspondent for NBC. He won an Emmy for his coverage of the first Apollo moon landing and broke the world news exclusive on the cause of the Challenger blow up. He was a finalist to be the first reporter in space. He has lived for fifty years close to Cape Canaveral.