Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  The source of this newfound energy, this sudden surge of hope, this heightened curiosity, or whatever it was, had mixed with Stangley’s seasoned understanding of space travel and caused in him an unsettling sense of worry for Columbia and her crew.

  He scrolled the e-mail back to the top so he could read it once more.

  John, hope you are well. I can’t make it tonight. We’ve discovered a debris strike against Columbia’s left-wing leading edge. It was a large/late hit and we’re very concerned. I will be working here until late—maybe all night. Teams are meeting to determine an appropriate course of action. No press statement given yet. I thought you could use a scoop. Get here quick. Look for me at the press conference tomorrow. Remember, you did not hear this from me!

  Ken Brown

  Stangley lowered his Blackberry to his lap and stared out the window, a symphony of neurons at work. “Why me?” he whispered. “Why did Ken trust me with this information?”

  Chapter 6

  Air Force Space Command (AFSPC)

  25th Space Wings, 1st Space Control Squadron, U.S. Air Force

  Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station, Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Columbia Flight Day 3

  Saturday, Jan. 18, 2003

  CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN AIR FORCE STATION (CMAFS) is easily the most well-protected military installation of its size anywhere in the world. The installation consists of a 4.5 acre complex built inside a man made cave with walls and ceiling of granite 2000 feet thick. There are 15 buildings, 12 of which are three stories high and perched atop 1,000-pound steel springs that allow building movement up to 12 inches in any one direction.

  Inside the installation is the United States Command Center for North America. The seven centers within the complex are: Air Warning, Missile Correlation, Space Control, Operational Intelligence Watch, Systems, Weather, and Command.

  Space Control Center

  Mission Statement:

  To ensure the department of defense’s ability to access space, to ensure U.S. freedom of action within the space medium, and to en-sure an ability to deny others the use of space, if required.

  (U.S. Strategic Command Public Affairs Office)

  The space control specialist who had been watching Columbia’s data points course across his monitor cleared his throat, adjusted his headset so that the microphone tip was directly in front of his mouth, and then began speaking to summon his commander.

  “Please hold for the commander,” a woman’s voice replied. The specialist waited nervously at his workstation, his eyes darting among the seven monitors, checking the data logs one last time, searching for a reason to end this call—anything to signal it was unnecessary.

  The artificial indirect lighting in the space-tracking room offered no clues of day or night, cloudy or clear skies, winter or summer—no outward signs of life on Earth. Lighting and temperature were kept constant. The uniformed men and women of the space control center, their faces awash in the muted hues of amber and blue of their monitors, worked their stations, not from some aircraft carrier out at sea, or the cramped quarters of a fighter jet. Instead, they sat cocooned inside the walls of Cheyenne Mountain, carefully watching instruments that relayed information about some place entirely different.

  They were patrolling outer space.

  The specialist was reasonably sure of his data. He had compared it with three other sites all showing the same thing. He was certain this call was warranted, and yet the 10 seconds of dead air in his headset made him question what he saw.

  “This is Commander Scheckter, go ahead.”

  “Sir, ah,” the mere sound of the commander’s voice sent the specialist’s mind tripping. “I think, I think there’s something here you need to see.”

  “Yes. Well, what is it?” Scheckter returned in his usual booming voice.

  “Right, well, it seems sir there’s an object orbiting with Space Shuttle Columbia.”

  “I’m sorry son, say again.”

  The specialist cleared his throat, then clarified his message.

  “We started getting data back from the SSN about 20 minutes ago. It shows a small object orbiting with Columbia.”

  Scheckter paused briefly, changing his pitch and tone from commander to colleague, facilitating an easier flow of communication, realizing this was a call he needed to take.

  “Okay son, tell me what we know.”

  The SSN, or Space Surveillance Network, is comprised of a worldwide network of 20 ground-based radar and optical sensor sites, and a single low Earth-orbiting satellite with sensors capable of measuring ultraviolet to very long-wave infrared light. The SSN is monitored 24 hours per day, 365 days per year, by rotating Space Control’s five teams of 11 space system specialists. Using data obtained from the SSN, the Space Control Center maintains a catalog of more than 9,000 manmade orbiting objects in space. The SSN is capable of “seeing” and tracking objects as small as 10 centimeters in length—a little larger than the diameter of a baseball.

  “Sir, we first confirmed the object on radar at 3:57 P.M., EST. We have data from multiple sites including Eglin, Beale, Kirtland, Cape Cod, Maui, and Navy SSS. They all concur; they show a small object orbiting with the spacecraft.”

  “No one saw it entering the box?” the commander asked. The commander was referring to the monitored area of space surrounding Columbia, an imaginary rectangle or “box” measuring 25 miles long and wide by six miles high. Whenever an orbiter is in space, Space Control monitors the orbiter throughout its mission, clearing a corridor for safe travel through its glide path. If an object, known as space junk, approaches the monitoring rectangle, or comes within 36 to 72 hours of colliding with the orbiter, Space Control notifies NASA so that evasive action can be taken if necessary.

  “Well, that’s just why I’m calling you sir; the data shows the object never entered the box.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “We back-checked all the data, sir. Today is only Columbia’s third day in space, so it was a relatively small amount of data to go through. We looked at everything since the launch of Columbia, and there’s nothing up until the time we see the object at 3:57 P.M. today. The object just appears!”

  “So what are you saying, that something floated out of Columbia’s cargo bay?”

  “Well, I guess it’s possible, sir. But the point I’m trying to make is that the object just appears out of nowhere, right near Columbia’s left wing. Earlier today, this morning actually, Columbia made its two scheduled maneuvers—something about positioning for some experiments they were going to do. Anyway, at 9:42 A.M., Columbia moved from a tail-first to a right-wing-first orientation. Then later at 10:17 A.M., we show it moving back to a tail-first orientation. Maybe something came loose then, sir.”

  Chapter 7

  Kennedy Space Center, Florida

  Saturday, Jan. 18, 2003

  6:45 PM EST

  THE CAMERAMAN FROM CNN had humored John Stangley long enough. Stangley had promised he knew of a great spot for his exclusive story about Columbia, but getting transportation out to Launch Complex 39 observation gantry was more difficult than he had expected. When the Kennedy Space Center press-transport van finally dropped them off at the gantry, they had less than 10 minutes to get set for their exclusive live shot.

  Stangley was first out of the van, walking past the elevator and straight to the stairs. He flew up the first flight two at a time, the metal-grate stairs ringing out each step.

  “Hey John, anything wrong with the elevator?” the cameraman called out to Stangley while hauling his camera and battery pack over one shoulder.

  “It’s not too much farther,” Stangley encouraged from above. The truth was, Stangley was on his way up to the third deck of the gantry, which rose above the ground 60 feet.

  When Stangley reached the third deck he felt exhilarated. His heartbeat thumped in his neck; his breathing was fast and deep.

  “I’m up here on the south side of the third d
eck,” he called down to his cameraman in a fragmented, breathless sentence. He quickly walked to the south railing and took in the view, squinting slightly into the onshore breeze. Stangley sensed the history. To the southeast were launch pads 39A and B; while redesigned and upgraded for the space shuttle and its unique characteristics, they were the same pads used for the Apollo missions. To the southwest were a collection of other launch pads used for Deltas, Titans and Atlas rockets. The display plaque mounted to the south railing detailed the various launch sites.

  “Nice shot, Stangley, but next time we use the elevator, okay?” the cameraman begged.

  John Stangley stood with the microphone in his hand, the black foam grip handle absorbing the faint sweat in his palm. He had convinced a CNN producer that a live shot from the observation gantry at the Kennedy Space Center would be a dramatic vantage point for his exclusive report, and she’d agreed.

  The January air was cool, and a light breeze swirled in around him through the metal-grate decking, fanning the perspiration on his forehead. He could not remember the last time he felt this charge of nervousness. The months without work, the months that had passed without a single accomplishment, were losing their grip on him. Still, weeks would pass before he would realize the full impact of tonight’s report.

  Up on the gantry, they were met by a NASA press liaison, a middle-aged woman with whom Stangley had worked on and off for more than seven years. She reached out to shake his hand, “It’s really great to have you back with us John. God knows you’ve been through hell.”

  “Thanks. It feels like I’ve been away from this place for…”

  Stangley broke off as the cameraman touched his earphones and motioned to Stangley that it was time.

  “Okay, guys, we go live in five, four…” The cameraman signaled “one” with his finger, and then a red “on air” light at the front of the camera switched on.

  In the CNN newsroom, a commercial was ending and the on-screen graphics and running news crawler replaced it on screens across America; the bumper music faded off. The anchorwoman looked up from her notes and into the camera, waiting for her cue. Stangley stood idle in the right-hand split-screen.

  “Welcome back to CNN, I’m Stephanie Lance,” Stangley heard through his earpiece. He listened for his cue. “Two days ago, Space Shuttle Columbia blasted off into space to begin a 16-day science mission. CNN has just learned that what was thought to be a flawless launch is now being called into question. We go now to the Kennedy Space Center, where our senior science correspondent, John Stangley, is standing by with this exclusive report. John?”

  “Thank you, Stephanie. I’m standing on the third deck of the launch gantry here at the Kennedy Space Center, a popular point of interest to Florida visitors. The sun’s been down about a half-hour now but if you look closely over my left shoulder, off in the distance, oh about a half a mile or so behind me, you can see a dimly lit Launch Pad 39A, where Columbia and her crew of seven astronauts began their 16-day mission just yesterday morning. CNN learned less than an hour ago that engineers and management at NASA have become concerned about possible damage to Columbia’s wing—this after NASA photo and video experts reviewed Columbia’s launch films and discovered that foam insulation from the shuttle’s external fuel tank apparently broke off during launch and struck Columbia’s left wing. We are told that teams here at Kennedy Space Center and at the Johnson Space Center in Houston are reviewing the severity of this finding, and are deciding on an appropriate course of action.”

  Stangley touched his earpiece as he heard Lance break in with a question.

  “John, what does this mean for the crew of Columbia?”

  “Well, Stephanie, we’re just hearing of this problem now and it’s hard to speculate what this could mean for Columbia’s crew. NASA will, of course, be investigating the severity of this problem over the next few days. I wouldn’t expect the crew to have experienced any problems in orbit—in fact it’s probably safe to say that the astronauts don’t even know about the problem yet. But the biggest potential for a serious problem comes during reentry, when the leading edge and underside of Columbia’s wing are subjected to temperatures over 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit. If the thermal protection system has been breached and those specially designed black tiles have been damaged by the foam strike, then this could be a very serious problem.”

  Lance interjected again, asking her final prepared question. “John, some of our viewers may be wondering if foam loss is a new problem for the Shuttle—what can you tell us about that?”

  “Well, Stephanie, it’s certainly not a new problem. NASA has had a long-standing problem with foam loss from the external tank,” Stangley said as he looked down at the prop papers in his hand and pretended to read something for the camera. He did not need notes, though—his own space-program database had magically come back on-line. Facts and figures were ready at his lips, easy and natural as a reunion with an old friend.

  “To give you a sense of this foam-loss problem, of the seventy-nine shuttle flights where launch video is available for analysis, more than eighty percent of those flights show some degree of foam loss. What makes this foam loss so significant is the size of the debris, and that it struck the wing relatively late in the launch, meaning the shuttle was traveling at a high rate of speed. We’re told that a press conference is expected sometime tomorrow, we’re not sure exactly when at this point, but we hope to have more concrete details for you then. I will be following this story and will pass on information as it becomes available. Reporting live from Kennedy Space Center, this is John Stangley.”

  Chapter 8

  Johnson Space Center, Houston

  Mission Evaluation Room

  Mission Management Team Meeting (unscheduled)

  Saturday, Jan. 18, 2003

  JULIE POLLARD STOOD UP from her assigned place at the large rectangular 12-seat conference table, signaling she was ready to begin. “Okay, let’s get started, we have a lot to cover… Are you, are you having trouble with your mike? Oh, okay, you looked like you…,” Pollard said to a panel member. “Everyone’s good then? Can everyone hear me in the back? I know we’re very crowded today, thank you all for coming.”

  Pollard paused briefly, purposefully, she had the floor and wanted everyone’s attention. The room quieted; they were eager to hear what she had to say. Representatives from virtually every shuttle discipline, engineers most of them, were here for this meeting, filling the room to capacity and spilling out into the hallways 30 feet to the left and right of the rear double doors. Ten engineers, including Ken Brown, had already signed in via conference call from NASA’s Kennedy and Marshall space flight centers.

  Every engineer present for the meeting had contributed to the flight in some way. And when the success of a flight was threatened, the engineers became very concerned.

  Engineers by nature are fascinated creatures. Fascinated by how things work and how they don’t, they revel in the process of problem-solving often as much as the solution itself. Engineering problems at NASA, however, often come with unusually high stakes: possible loss of crew, possible loss of a $2-billion spacecraft, or both.

  Pollard shuffled some papers in front of her, fiddled with the screen of her laptop, then looked up to address the group.

  “Welcome to the second Mission Management Team Meeting for STS-107. In response to the organization-wide interest in this debris-strike incident, the team and I thought it would be prudent to invite the various departments to join us today, to provide an opportunity for you to offer input on the issue.

  “First, I want to thank you all for coming today. I know it’s Saturday, and for many of you, this should be a three-day weekend. Your dedication to this organization, this mission and the crew are greatly appreciated.

  “The purpose of this meeting today is to get updates from the tiger team as well as other pertinent shuttle program engineering teams, to summarize our knowledge of the debris-strike issue, determine the severity of t
he problem, and ultimately determine a course of action.”

  Pollard had thought the debris-strike issue all the way through; she had seen the evidence and was certain what should be done. But there was a process here at NASA, steps to follow, and she was determined to lead the way.

  Back when her alarm went off this morning at 5:30 A.M., she was already awake, eyes wide open, ideas moving through an ultra-efficient assembly line of analysis. Fifteen minutes later she had settled in for her morning run, five easy miles at a six-mile per hour pace. She ran effortlessly, with perfect posture and stride length, a quiet upper body, no wasted movements. Her legs moved like new pistons in fresh oil.

  “Worst-case scenario?” she mouthed out loud through rhythmic respiration. Easy question, easy answer. She had learned the basic laws of physics long before graduating from MIT. You take away the protection, some chunk of debris smashes into the RCC panels, and in come the super-heated plasma gases, like proton torpedoes through the Death Star’s exhaust port. The gases would swarm into the wing, finding all sorts of structures that can’t take the heat. Such as the aluminum internal frame of the wing, the wing trusses, which would melt as easy as cheddar cheese in the 2,500-degree atmospheric oven of reentry.

  “The crew would never survive the heat of reentry!” Pollard exclaimed out loud.

  Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. The damage had not even been confirmed yet. But she knew better. If she had learned anything during her years at NASA, it was that in the space program, it is never too early to plan for the worst. And that’s exactly what she did. Nearing the end of her run, with the facade of her Cape Cod condominium and its rows of queen palms coming into view, she formulated her plan. If they gave her a worst-case scenario, she was ready.