Chasing New Horizons

by Alan Stern

  Among those in attendance were many of the original members of the Pluto Underground, who had been working since 1989 to get a mission to Pluto. Also there were other members of the planetary science community, people from the engineering teams, executives from every major partner in the project, and Mike Griffin. Nothing like this—the launch of a first reconnaissance mission to a new planet—had occurred since 1977, when the twin Voyagers launched to explore the giant planets.

  A few days before launch, members of the New Horizons science team gathered for a final, daylong prelaunch meeting. Alan spoke to this group, reminding them of just how far they had come, and how after all those battles over all those nearly seventeen years, they had succeeded. Now they were gathered together on the eve of launch, with their extraordinary spacecraft mounted atop a rocket the size of a city skyscraper, ready to leave Earth, forever.

  They had come very far indeed, but after Alan spoke, it struck him that everything they hoped to learn, everything they had worked for, depended on a successful launch, and then the almost ten-year, three-billion-mile journey ahead. Everything, really, was still ahead of them.

  The next night, Alan went out to the launch pad with Todd May and Rex Geveden. Almost no one else was there. But there was New Horizons, atop its twenty-two-story-tall behemoth launcher called Atlas. The image of that rocket burned itself into Alan’s memory. He knew it would only be there briefly, for a few more days, and then it would fly. It would be gone, and whether it succeeded or failed, he would never see it again.

  The sea breeze washed over him; he could smell the salty, coastal Cape Canaveral air, a familiar memory from other launches he’d been involved in. He looked up at the rocket and quietly spoke to it: “Make us proud.” Then he turned and walked back to his car.

  The next morning they would count down to launch to Pluto.

  9

  GOING SUPERSONIC

  A VERY SPECIAL PACKAGE

  As the opening of the launch window neared, out on Cape Canaveral’s Launch Complex 41, New Horizons sat atop its giant Atlas rocket, powered up and ready to fly. The “stack,” as the rocket guys called it, was impressive—over two hundred feet tall. At the top, little New Horizons was attached to its STAR 48 solid rocket motor, both cocooned together inside the cavernous Atlas nose-cone fairing built for school bus–size spacecraft.

  Alongside this rocket stack was its gantry, which is a utility tower nearly as high as the rocket itself, with various conduits, cables, and umbilicals attached, attending to the rocket’s needs for power, fuel, cooling, and communications until the moment of launch. The launch complex itself is adjacent to the beach, and miles away from almost anything else.

  Much of Kennedy Space Center is kept as a wildlife sanctuary; in fact, less than 10 percent of the land is developed. The raw Florida marsh there is an excellent place for spotting egrets, ospreys, eagles, herons, and of course actual alligators. Across the marshes, dunes, and lagoons of this rich ecosystem are many iconic NASA facilities known from pictures and documentaries, including the enormous 525-foot-high Vehicle Assembly Building, a dozen or more other launch pads, the astronaut quarters, the Shuttle landing runway, and a sprawling visitor complex.

  No doubt, there was something that drew people to this particular launch—a sense of something epochal, a passing of the torch from Voyager to a new generation of explorers who had been inspired by Voyager. You could feel it; it was in the air, now it was a new generation’s chance to explore never-before-seen worlds.

  New Horizons touted the slogan “the first mission to the last planet,” and it did promise in many ways to be the “last major first” in the opening era of planetary reconnaissance of our solar system. It was also the first of a new class of NASA planetary missions—a series of $1-billion-class, competed, and scientist-led interplanetary exploration missions dubbed the “New Frontiers Program.”

  For those working on the mission, there was a keen awareness of both the decade-long flight time ahead, as well as the nearly two-decades-long struggle that had already passed just to get to this moment. For all these reasons, there was a sense that this was an important historical moment, and almost anyone who was anyone in space exploration came to it—from astronauts to politicians to planetary scientists from around the globe, to space news media and politicians.

  By a weird, cosmic coincidence, the launch happened to be taking place near the anniversary of Clyde Tombaugh’s passing, on January 17, 1997. This made the occasion particularly touching.

  But there was another reason why this was an emotional event, particularly for the Tombaugh family. Unbeknownst to the general public, a bit of Clyde’s ashes had been tucked away on board New Horizons. The idea to do so had originally been hatched by Rob Staehle, back in the 1990s, when JPL was studying the Pluto Fast Flyby mission. Rob had proposed the idea to Clyde, with whom he had become friends, and Clyde accepted. So, in early 2005, when it was beginning to look like the launch of New Horizons would soon be a reality, Alan raised this delicate topic with Clyde’s widow, Patsy, and daughter, Annette, asking them if they knew of Clyde’s conversation with Staehle, and if they had in fact saved some of his ashes to go to Pluto. Their response was an immediate and enthusiastic yes to both questions. They told Alan that Clyde had wanted this very badly. So Alan asked his spacecraft engineers how one would actually do this, how they could mount a small container on the bird, because in spaceflight even something sentimental needed to be engineered. The engineers designed a small container that they would affix to a spacecraft wall and use to replace a small balance weight.

  One day in mid-2005, Alan received a small packet of ashes from Clyde’s family, which he physically carried out to APL in his briefcase and handed to the engineers to place aboard inside the container. On the outside of the container was a tiny plaque, inscribed with words Alan wrote: INTERRED HEREIN ARE REMAINS OF AMERICAN CLYDE W. TOMBAUGH, DISCOVERER OF PLUTO AND THE SOLAR SYSTEM’S ‘THIRD ZONE.’ ADELLE AND MURON’S BOY, PATRICIA’S HUSBAND, ANNETTE AND ALDEN’S FATHER, ASTRONOMER, TEACHER, PUNSTER, AND FRIEND: CLYDE W. TOMBAUGH (1906–1997).

  Think about that for a minute: seventy years earlier, photons of light from the Sun had reflected off Pluto, traveled for four hours and over all those billions of miles to Earth, and passed through a telescope in Flagstaff, Arizona. Those photons created a tiny dot in a plate of photographic emulsion that had caught young Clyde Tombaugh’s eye when he examined that image a few weeks later, revealing the existence of a new, faraway planet. Now some atoms that had been part of Clyde were going to make the journey to that faraway world and then continue on, outward, to leave our solar system for interstellar space and the galaxy beyond. Whatever you believe about life, death, consciousness, and fate, this was surely a unique and wondrous memorial, unlike any other in history.

  COUNTING BACKWARD, TWICE

  As planned, on Friday, January 13, 2006, the Department of Energy fueled the RTG aboard New Horizons. Replete with a phalanx of armed guards, NASA and DOE brought in its nuclear fuel. In the clean room, high up on the rocket at the level where the spacecraft was, there was a large, squarish hatch on the side of the nose cone, about five feet by five feet, used to provide access to the bird. In order to push the glowing-hot radioactive fuel into the RTG, specialized tools that could be operated from twenty feet away were used, safeguarding workers from the radioactivity. Then, from a distance, they installed the RTG’s cap and tightened all its bolts to launch specifications. Once the RTG was fueled, its heat began producing electric power. From that moment on, New Horizons was alive, in the sense that it was producing its own power. And from that point on its systems were on and it was being operated from mission control back in Maryland, just as if it were in flight. In a very real sense, although New Horizons was still on Earth, its mission had begun.

  The morning of Monday, January 16, was clear, cool, and sunny. The only weather concern was a forecast of high winds from a front that was blowing in over central Fl
orida. Alan got up hours before dawn, answered email, did a ritual prelaunch run across the streets of Cocoa Beach, kissed his wife Carole goodbye, and headed in to the Atlas Spaceflight Operations Center, or ASOC. The ASOC is a large mission-control complex located just three miles from the launch pad. Alan, like more than one hundred others involved in the launch, took his place at a launch console, grabbed some coffee, and put on a communications headset. He had gone through these motions many times before in New Horizons launch rehearsals, but today was different. This was a live count, as evidenced by the ambulances outside the ASOC in case anyone had a heart attack, by the sprawling press contingent, and by the unusual presence of NASA administrator Mike Griffin in the control center.

  Meanwhile, crowds of New Horizons team members, friends and family, planetary exploration fans, and the public, were all being bussed in to the various viewing areas around Cape Canaveral. A few dozen dignitaries and key visitors were ensconced at a VIP viewing site by the iconic Apollo/shuttle Vehicle Assembly Building, five miles west of the launch pad. Many of the science team members were gathered, with their families and friends, at a different viewing area with bleachers about five miles south of the launch site—as close as anyone in the open was allowed to get to the violence of launch. Others, by the thousands, had to take less prized positions farther away.

  The science team members and their families could see the tall Atlas in the distance, surrounded by the four lightning towers of Launch Complex 41, across the wide watery expanse of Florida’s Banana River. Through binoculars the rocket looked like a living, breathing thing, relentlessly venting liquid oxygen steam, in anticipation of its soon to be moment of glory or ruin. They could see that the main stage of the Atlas had turned from its normal metallic color to a bright white that matched the color of the nose cone on top, another sign that the Atlas had been fueled full of its cryogenic liquid oxygen and hydrogen, forming a layer of frost on the rocket’s thin metallic skin.

  After the busses dropped people off at the viewing sites, they were briefed about safety and shown the position of a nearby building where they could take shelter in the event of a bad launch accident. This warning didn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the crowd, but it did remind them of the very real “playing for keeps” stakes.

  The waterfront filled up with tripods and cameras and people staking out good spots to photograph and watch the launch. Kids ran and played and chased and tackled each other on the wide grassy expanse between the bleachers and the water. There was a giant digital clock displaying the official countdown time, and a set of loudspeakers carrying the voice of mission control. If all went smoothly, the clock would count down to four minutes before the launch, and then there would be a scheduled ten-minute “hold” while all the rocket and spacecraft systems were checked one last time. Then if everything was Go, the final four minutes of the countdown would proceed.

  Based on the inexorable celestial mechanics of getting New Horizons on its trajectory to Jupiter, launch was scheduled to occur no earlier than 1:23 eastern time that afternoon. The same celestial mechanics dictated that the launch window would last less than two hours: if the bird was not in flight by then, they would have to stand down and launch another day.

  The launch count proceeded normally until 1:17 P.M., barely six minutes from when the rocket should fly, but then a valve that did not seem to be opening properly and a rise in the low-altitude winds caused a delay to 1:45 P.M. At 1:40 P.M. the launch was delayed again to 2:10 P.M. The valve problem was fixed, but there was still concern about the winds. Then at 2:10, NASA announced that an issue had cropped up with a Deep Space Network (DSN) antenna station that needed to communicate with New Horizons after launch. That drove home how many things had to be performing perfectly at the same time, in so many different places, in order for everything to be Go for launch. It wasn’t just the spacecraft and the rocket, or even the ground systems in Florida that had to be ready. There was also mission control at APL in Maryland, the launch safety equipment in Florida, and the entirety of the Deep Space Network of antennas around the world that also had to be ready, simultaneously.

  Meanwhile, the wind began whipping up off the water, delaying launch yet again, pushing things uncomfortably close to the end of the day’s launch window. The crowd began to wonder if they would even see a launch. After another delay to 2:50 P.M., NASA announced, “All launch elements report they are prepared to support launch today.” Then more wind and another delay, to the very end of the launch window. Any further delay and the launch would be “scrubbed” for the day.

  Finally, the countdown descended all the way to that four-minute hold mark. At that point, the launch director stopped to poll the responsible parties for each of the major systems on the spacecraft, the rocket, and the ground systems: “Go” or “No Go.” Those listening to the public-affairs channel heard them each quickly give their leave, one after the other, giving their “Go.”

  Atlas? “Go.” New Horizons? “Go.” APL Mission control? “Go.” A dozen more, then, finally. PI? Alan reported, “Go.”

  With each “Go” a little cheer erupted at the viewing sites. But then, at 2:59 P.M., the weather soured again. The announcement “We have a ‘No Go’ due to a red-line wind monitor,” came over the loudspeakers. Surface winds were exceeding 33 knots at the launch pad, the limit for what the giant Atlas could correct for as it pushed its way past the launch tower. There was no more time, New Horizons would not launch that day. The exploration of Pluto would have to wait.

  The next morning was January 17, the ninth anniversary of Clyde Tombaugh’s passing. Weather forecasters gave a 40 percent chance of thunderstorms, but launch preparations were proceeding, so the crowds drove back out to Kennedy Space Center, ready to load onto buses that would take them back out to the launch viewing sites. Little did anyone know that over at the ASOC, a tense drama had been unfolding for hours.

  Alan had arrived at the ASOC at 5:00 A.M., after another ritual, prelaunch run, just as he had the day before. That morning’s run was filled with thoughts of both Tombaugh’s passing and the many checklist items ahead to get the bird into flight.

  Arriving at 5:00 A.M. may seem early for a launch scheduled for early afternoon, but the launch preparation procedure is long and time-consuming. Just as Alan arrived, he was informed that APL’s power was down in Maryland. As it turned out, the same weather front that had blown through Florida the day before, raising those troublesome winds, had intensified and was now raging through Maryland. The storm had become so violent there overnight that it had knocked out the power. The New Horizons mission control was operating on only backup, generator power. Alan:

  I thought to myself, “Do I want to launch with our mission control on backup power? If New Horizons launches and needs mission control’s help because of an anomaly as it reaches space, and that backup power to our mission control center fails, we’ll have no way to help the spacecraft. We did not come this far to take an unnecessary risk like this at launch. If we were out of launch days, I might have to take this risk, but we still have two weeks of launch window ahead.”

  At the Mission Operations Center at APL in Maryland, Alice Bowman was at the center of mission control. An über-competent, fastidious, and calm engineer, Alice was (and still is) the New Horizons Mission Operations Manager (an acronym affectionately called MOM), meaning she was in charge of the team operating the spacecraft. Alice had been part of the project ever since the proposal effort back in 2001. She felt that she and her team were trained and prepared for anything the spacecraft could throw at them. But this? Alice:

  I got into APL about 5:30 A.M., which was closed for all except essential personnel because of the power outage. Of course, on launch day, my team was considered essential personnel. When I got to the control center, it was mostly dark. We had electricians frantically working to hard-wire the backup generator into the electrical panel. There were all these extension cords running around the floor because we were trying to fig
ure out a way to combine different subsystems people around one machine. We only got everything rerouted about ten minutes before the opening of the launch window that afternoon.

  The launch managers at APL and the Cape were confident that the backup power was rock-solid and ready to support the launch. New Horizons chief engineer Chris Hersman made the case that it would take two independent failures to get into a bad situation—one on the spacecraft and also a failure of the backup power generator at APL. Generally, the rest of the team was prepared to launch with the APL mission control on emergency generator power. But Alan was not, and he was resolute.

  As Maryland’s electric company worked to restore APL’s primary power, the count continued. The Atlas was fueled, and again it turned that beautiful white from water in the thick Florida air freezing onto its icy skin. The spacecraft and third stage were prepared for launch. DSN antenna stations around the world checked out. Launch time approached, but APL was still on backup power when it was time for the final Go/No Go poll in the ASOC.

  Launch director? “Go.” New Horizons project manager? “Go.” APL director? “Go.” Alan recalls:

  As the launch director went around the communications loops polling everyone, over 20 mission managers all said “Go.” But I just thought in my heart of hearts that if we launch and New Horizons gets into trouble and then our mission control goes down, I’ll never forgive myself. “This,” I thought, “is what it means to be the mission PI. The moment when rubber meets the road in a tough call.”

  Over my headset, I heard the launch director ask me for my “Go” or “No Go.” “PI?” Heads turned to look my way, because they knew I’d been lobbying to stand down all morning. But now the decision was mine. I said, “I’m not comfortable launching without two sources of power at New Horizons mission control. The PI is No Go for launch.”