At the griddle sessions Lee handed out weight summaries, showing how far the current aggregate design was over the limit. He was reluctant to start setting weight limits for subsystems — he wanted to find the best trade-off across the whole spacecraft — but he pushed his people every day to figure out what they could do to bring down their net weight, to give the rest a little slack.
Still, the daily totals weren’t coming down fast enough, and the weight issue soon emerged as his major worry.
It wouldn’t matter if, at submission time, they were a little heavy, a little above the target. If they won, there would be plenty of detailed design work to follow. But just then it seemed as if the Columbia MEM wouldn’t even be in the right ballpark.
The weight limits had been set by NASA to fit into their new all-chemical, gravity-assist system configuration. And the limits were thereby much tighter than they had been in previous nuclear-option baselines.
Lee started to worry, privately, that they might be too tight to be feasible.
The issue was brought to a head, at last, by Lee’s closest ally.
Jack Morgan took Lee into a corner of the office, away from the hubbub. Morgan’s face was long, uncharacteristically serious. “JK, I think we’re in trouble.”
Morgan took Lee through the figures he had been establishing for the MEM environment and life-support systems. He had guideline figures, based on Apollo, for what it would take to support one human being for one day on Mars: food, clothing, air supply, waste disposal, living space, EVA consumables.
“Look at this. And this.” Morgan took Lee through a whole series of options, where he had tried to juggle elements of his ECLSS weight budget against each other. “There’s no way I can support four men for thirty days on the surface. That’s one hundred and twenty man-days. It just doesn’t fit. We’re an order of magnitude out, here.”
Lee felt a bubble of panic swell up in his throat. It really looked as if they weren’t going to be able to close the design.
Suddenly he was aware of the lack of sleep, all the meals he’d skipped, the adrenaline he’d been burning off; he felt ill, light-headed.
Come on, JK. Get a grip on yourself. If it’s a problem for you, so it is for Rockwell, and McDonnell, and all those other assholes. Look for a way to turn this to our advantage.
Morgan was looking at him with concern. “Are you okay, JK? You look kind of—”
“Don’t turn into a doctor on me now, Jack.”
“Buddy, the way you eat yourself up, you’re going to need a doctor someday. I mean it, JK.”
Lee railroaded on. “Listen, Jack. You can’t deliver a hundred and twenty man-days on Mars. Fine. What can you give me?”
Morgan thought about it. “Maybe 75 percent of that. Say ninety days.”
Shit. Worse than I thought. “So we have our four guys down there for, what, twenty-three days?”
“You’ve just lost a quarter of your surface stay time, JK. I can’t believe that’s going to be acceptable.”
Lee shook his head. “No, it isn’t. But there has to be another way.” He thought about it. “Ninety man-days, huh. Well, what if we only take three guys? Then we can still stay the full thirty.”
Morgan shook his head immediately. “That’s impossible. The RFP sets it out. Having spent all that money to get their guys onto Mars, NASA wants to get twenty-four-hour EVA cycles going. They want two guys out on the Martian surface for as much of each day as possible. They want a ‘red’ and ‘blue’ team shift system—”
“Well, the ‘red’ team can take a flying fuck at the ‘blue’ team,” Lee snapped back. “This won’t be the only place where that shitty RFP is wrong.”
His mind was starting to race.
Three guys instead of four. If it could be done, he started to figure, there would be add-on savings throughout the rest of the program, beyond the MEM definition itself. For example, one quarter less life support would have to be hauled all the way out to Mars and back. And all at no, or minimal, cost to the value of the surface activities.
That’s what he would have to demonstrate, anyhow.
If he could achieve this, he realized with growing excitement, it would be a hell of a strong plank in the bid.
All Lee’s brief feelings of panic were gone; he felt strong, fit, eager, pumping with adrenaline again. He grabbed Morgan’s arm. “So all we have to do is figure out some way of getting three guys to maintain a twenty-four hour EVA shift pattern. Listen, Jack. This is what I want you to do.”
It was hardly a simulator: just a room within a room, fenced off from one of the Columbia site’s larger lab areas. They fitted it out with a rudimentary life-support system — food and water — but the room was left open to the outside air.
Morgan paid three students from a paramedic class he taught at Caltech to come and live in there for a month.
Every day the students went through a mocked-up EVA: they put on dummy space suits and backpacks loaded with lead weights, and they moved about simulating Mars surface experiments. And then the students would climb up a little ladder to simulate returning to the MEM, and vacuum each other clean of talcum-powder Mars dust.
The students experimented with work and sleep patterns, trying to find ways to optimize their surface shifts.
The whole setup was crude, but effective; at the end of the month the students were a little bored, and definitely exhausted; but they were alert, functional, and actually fitter than when they had gone into the mock-up. Exhaustion was fine, anyhow; the real crew was going to have the whole return leg of the trip, seven months of it, to sleep it off.
Morgan wrote this up for Lee, and Lee was delighted with the results. Not only was his three-man idea going to hit that evaluation board between the eyes, he was going to be able to throw at them detailed proposals about managing the Mars surface time: suggestions for shift rotas, the need to establish work and sleep patterns before arrival at Mars, how to schedule suitable rest periods, and all the rest.
Problems and opportunities. He had a mood of gathering momentum, of approaching triumph.
As the clock wound down to the deadline day, Lee started sitting in on the rehearsals as each group put together its own piece of the pitch.
He began to figure out how the final thing would come together. There would be him — and Xu, Rowen, Lye, Morgan, and a few others — on a stage in some kind of hotel or convention center, in front of a mass of NASA engineers, and they would have sixty minutes to make their case.
But the more he listened to the draft pieces of the pitch, the more he understood that it wasn’t going to make sense to have five or six or seven presenters in that time. One man was going to have to do the whole show, from beginning to end, on every aspect of the proposal, every damned subsystem, with the others sitting there in support to help field questions.
So after that, he started taking material home — draft scripts, documents, notes — and set himself to memorize every piece of the system he was proposing. He even took the stuff to bed, and sat there propped up against his pillows, with his reading light and his glasses.
Jennine would wake up, and mumble something, and he’d be shocked to find it was four in the morning, or some such godforsaken time. An hour until he had to get out and start all over again.
But he was full of energy. He couldn’t believe it. Day after day. He felt like he could fly.
Eventually he had a cot brought into his office. It seemed to him he saved a lot of time that way.
Lee received a call from Art Cane.
“I’m getting kind of worried about what you guys are costing me. If we don’t win the bid, I’m looking at one hell of a write-off. How’s my two million budget looking, by the way?”
“Fine, Art.”
Actually, that was a barefaced lie. Lee was well aware that he had long since gone beyond that two million limit, and in fact he was headed for three or four times that limit.
One of Art’s more endearing characterist
ics, from Lee’s point of view, was his distrust of computerized accounting systems. He insisted on inspecting the figures every month, analyzed, summarized, and interpreted more or less by hand. Just as when he’d started the company.
So Cane was always at least a month behind the action. And by a little manipulation, Lee could juggle his billings and payments to pick up another thirty days. So he had two months’ grace in all.
That was all Lee needed. In two months, the bid would be in. He figured that if he won the bid, nobody would care how much it cost. And if he lost, Art would have his hide anyway. Either way the important thing was to have the resources he needed at hand, at that moment.
Cane said, “I just got a call from McDonnell Douglas.”
“Oh, yeah? And?”
“It wants to throw in with us on a joint effort to bid on the MEM. How about that, JK? Now, I want you to think about this…”
Cane went on about the details.
Lee thought hard.
If you were objective about it, a call like this from McDonnell was second only in value to a similar call from Rockwell itself. McDonnell had built Mercury and Gemini, the first two generations of manned American spacecraft, and the third stage of the Saturn V. So it would be a good, credible partner. And Lee knew that there were plenty of muttering voices within NASA who had never been happy about Rockwell’s work on Apollo, and had grumbled ever since. That community inside NASA, and Lee was sure there would be some of them on the evaluation board, would welcome a return to the good old days of partnership with McDonnell.
Every which way you looked at this, it made sense.
Lee cut through Cane. “Not interested,” he said.
Art Cane was silent for a long minute.
“Now, look here,” Cane said at last. “You know I’m not going to jam this deal down your throat. That’s not my style, JK.”
“I know that, sir. But this is our bid. Fuck McDonnell. Maybe we’ll hire them as a subcontractor later. Who needs them?”
“JK—”
“I need you to back me, Art.”
There was a bass rumble on the phone line. “Hell, Lee, you know I’ll do that. Just don’t let me down.”
“You know I won’t, Art. Now get off the line, I’ve got work to do.”
Monday, July 6, 1981
FLIGHT CREW TRAINING BUILDING, JACQUELINE B. KENNEDY SPACE CENTER
Natalie York and Ralph Gershon sat side by side in the Mars Excursion Module Biconic Simulator Number Three. York was hot and cramped in her closed pressure suit. Inside, the MEM cabin was realistically mocked up; from the outside, this motion-based simulator was a big, ungainly piece of engineering, with heavy white-painted hydraulics completely enclosing the cabin.
“Okay, Ralph, we’ll give it to you at OMS burn plus one,” the SimSup said.
“Roger,” Gershon said tersely.
Around York, electroluminescent readouts and gauges and dials came to life, the needles flickering and the CRT tubes blinking awake, to register engine temperature and chamber pressure and fuel and oxidizer levels.
Gershon sat to the left, in the pilot’s seat, and York to the right. The cabin’s windows, at eye level around them, were big and square, so that it was like sitting in a small, cramped airliner cockpit. The instruments’ soft green glow suffused the cabin; it was, York thought, like being immersed in water.
There was a smear of crimson beyond York’s window. She saw a simulated Martian landscape, salmon pink and softly curving, come rearing up beyond the glass. The landscape was a slice of painted plaster of paris over which, somewhere, a light television camera was panning under computer control. The sky was black, starless, probably just a backdrop. But there were splashes of orange light: representations of the tenuous upper atmosphere of Mars, reflecting the glow of the biconic’s RCS thrusters.
“Take it that the burn was good.” the SimSup said. “Your residuals are three-tenths, and your pitch maneuver was successful.”
“Okay,” Gershon said.
Gauges flickered and acronyms scrolled across the CRTs before York.
“We’ve dumped our forward RCS propellants,” she told Gershon. “OMS and RCS post-ignition reconfiguration complete. Auxiliary power unit start. We have two out of three APUs running, and that’s nominal.”
Gershon flicked at a gauge. “SimSup, I’ve got a poor correlation with the attitude reading on the inertial ball. I’m going to center the readings manually. You got a problem with that?”
“No problem, Ralph. We agree with that.”
“Entry interface,” York said. “We’re in the atmosphere, Ralph. A hundred and fifty-eight thousand feet. Nose up at forty degrees.”
Gershon said, “Let’s see what they’ve got to throw at us this time.”
“You’re getting paranoid, Ralph.”
“Tell me about it.”
Then the plaster of paris was scrolling past the window more rapidly.
“Frictional heating,” York said. She watched sensors telling her how the temperature was climbing over the lower surface of the craft.
The biconic, based on Rockwell’s current draft design, was the most advanced MEM configuration being studied by the various contractors. The four-man craft would fall into the atmosphere belly-first, and then fly down like an airplane, so the whole of the underside was tiled with heat-resistant panels, forming a heat sink which absorbed the energy of the sparse Martian air molecules.
“Get ready for your comms blackout,” the SimSup said drily. “See you on the other side, guys.”
“I hope so,” Gershon said.
Beyond York’s window a pinkish plasma glow built up.
Gershon grunted. “What a fake.”
“I kind of like it,” York murmured.
York and Gershon began to monitor the systems displays before them, checking them against checklist cards taped to the consoles. Then the work of the sim became routine, almost dull…
Except that, York knew, if this was for real, she would be feeling the first tug of deceleration in earnest, as the craft dug deeper into the Martian atmosphere. She could feel her pulse rising, beating at her throat. This simulation, designed more for engineers than astronauts, was crude: not even motion-based, it was a shadow play, mimicking life. But there was just enough in the sim, inside this static cabin, for it to catch at her imagination, to give her a taste of how it would be, really, to fly down from orbit to the surface of Mars.
She wished — suddenly, childishly — that this was for real. That she could somehow fast-forward through the years of training and uncertainty that lay ahead.
Oh, I want this. So badly.
Even if I have to get there with Ralph Gershon, she thought.
“A hundred and thirty thousand feet. Coming up to aerosurface control initiation.”
“Yo,” Gershon said. He began to work his stick and pedals.
The biconic was deep enough into the atmosphere, on this computer-generated dive, for the pressure to have rendered the forward attitude rockets useless. And the atmosphere would be almost thick enough for the biconic’s control surfaces to start biting into the air.
York realized that the biconic was a peculiar, unprecedented mix of spacecraft and aircraft.
“Dynamic pressure twenty pounds per square foot,” York said. “One hundred twenty thousand feet.”
“I got it,” Gershon said.
Then the last thrusters were switched off. The craft had become a glider, with only its aerodynamic control surfaces to maintain its attitude and trajectory.
The glow outside her window reached its peak, racking up through pink and yellow and blue-white. Actually the colors changed in visible clunks, as the computer changed over its filters.
Gershon worked at his stick and pedals, the biconic’s oddly old-fashioned aerodynamic control system. “The response seems sluggish to me.” He pushed the stick forward. “I’m trying to descend. The elevons have gone down, the rear has come up. I don’t feel a da
mn thing. Fucker. There we go. I overshot. Okay, bringing her up. Arresting my sink rate. Back on the stick. Elevons up, lift dumped, back end dropping down. Shit. Where’s the response… Oh. Here it is. I’m wallowing like a hog in mud.”
The biconic would be slow, clumsy, heavy to handle by comparison with most Earthbound aircraft, York knew. Flying the biconic was more like guiding a boat; you just had to rearrange your control surfaces and wait while the new configuration bit at the stream of thin air, and slowly changed your momentum.
“One hundred and three thousand feet,” she called.
“Here we go,” Gershon said. “First roll reversal coming up.”
In the electronic imagination of the computer, the biconic banked through eighty degrees to the right. York watched the tilting landscape; the plaster of paris appeared to quiver as some fault in the TV camera’s control mechanism made the tracking shudder.
The biconic was designed to go through a series of S-shaped turns in the upper atmosphere of Mars. The flight path was a question of budgeting: the craft had to shed all of its orbital energy by the time it reached its landing site, but on the other hand, at any point in its trajectory, the craft needed to maintain enough energy to reach that landing point. So the craft had to manage the lift generated by its biconic shape, together with the kinetic energy of its descent, to shed heat and reach its target…
“Overshot,” Gershon muttered. “Eighty-five degrees. Eighty-six. Banking left to compensate. Come on, SimSup. Is this where you hit us? Banking left. Okay. Here we go. Okay. First roll complete. Here we go. Second roll reversal.” Gershon’s voice was tense, his movements fast, mechanical.
He takes these games too seriously, York thought.
At this point the biconic would be traveling at many times the local speed of sound. Still glowing, it would streak across the Martian sky, scrawling a wake of vapor across unmarked skies, shedding great crashing waves of acoustical energy across the dead, empty landscape, a land that had lain undisturbed for half a billion years.
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