"And liftoff... liftoff of the 25th space shuttle mission, and it has cleared the tower!" said NASA commentator Hugh Harris.
"OK, let it go," I told Trott when Harris started talking. He pushed the SEND button and my story winged away on the A-wire.
Four miles away. Challenger was climbing majestically into a cloudless blue sky. We could not see the initial puffs of smoke indicating a fatal booster flaw.

A few seconds later, the crackling roar of those boosters swept over the press site and the UPI trailer started shaking and rattling as the ground shock arrived. I marveled at the view, describing it to Trott in Washington. We always kept the line open for the full eight-and-a-half minutes it took for a shuttle to reach orbit; should disaster strike, the plan went, I would start dictating and Trott would start filing raw copy to the wire.

But for the first few seconds, there was nothing to say. The roar was so loud we couldn't hear each other anyway. But the sound quickly faded to a dull rumble as Challenger wheeled about and arced over behind its booster exhaust plume, disappearing from view. NASA television, of course, carried the now-familiar closeups of the orbiter, but I wasn't watching television. I was looking out the window at the exhaust cloud towering into the morning sky.
"Incredible," I murmured.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the exhaust plume seemed to balloon outward, to somehow thicken. I recall a fleeting impression of fragments, of debris flying about, sparkling in the morning sunlight. And then, in that pregnant instant before the knowledge that something terrible has happened settled in, a single booster emerged from the cloud, corkscrewing madly through the sky.

I sat stunned. I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
"Wait a minute... something's happened..." I told Trott. A booster? Flying on its own? Oh my God. "They're in trouble," I said, my heart pounding. "Lemme dictate something!"

"OK, OK, hang on," Trott said. He quickly started punching in the header material of a one-paragraph "story" that would interrupt the normal flow of copy over the wire and alert editors to breaking news.
I still didn't realize Challenger had actually exploded. I didn't know what had happened. For a few heartbeats, I desperately reviewed the crew's options: Could the shuttle somehow have pulled free? Could the crew somehow still be alive? Had I been watching television, I would have known the truth immediately.
But I wasn't watching television.

"Ready," Trott said.
The lead went something like this: "The space shuttle Challenger apparently exploded about two minutes after launch today and veered wildly out of control.

The fate of the crew is not known."
"Got it..." Trott said, typing as I talked. Bells went off seconds later as the story starting clattering out on the bureau's A-wire printer behind me.
Trott and I quickly corrected the time of the accident and clarified that Challenger had, in fact, suffered a catastrophic failure. While we did not yet know what had happened to the crew, we all knew the chances for survival were virtually zero.

For the next half hour or so, I simply dictated my impressions and background to Trott, who would file three or four paragraphs of "running copy" to the wire at a time. At one point, I remember yelling "Obits! Tell somebody to refile the obits!" Before every shuttle mission, I wrote detailed profiles of each crew member. No one actually printed these stories; they were written to serve as instant obits in the event of a disaster. Now, I wanted to refile my profiles for clients who had not saved them earlier. At some point — I have no idea when — I put the phone down and started typing again, filing the copy to Washington where Trott assembled all the pieces into a more or less coherent narrative.

For the next two hours or so I don't remember anything but the mad rush of reporting. Subconsciously, I held the enormity of the disaster at bay; I knew if I relaxed my guard for an instant it could paralyze me. I was flying on some kind of mental autopilot. And then, around 2 p.m. or so, I recall a momentary lull. My fingers dropped to the keyboard and I stared blankly out the window toward the launch pad. I saw those seven astronauts. I saw them waving to the photographers as they headed for the launch pad. I remembered Christa McAuliffe's smile and Judy Resnik's flashing eyes. Tears welled up. I shook my head, blinked rapidly and turned back to my computer. I'll think about it all later, I told myself. I was right. I think about it every launch.