Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  Reid Hamilton spoke up immediately.

  “We’ve maintained close communication with all our payload suppliers for this mission. They are aware of our concerns about the debris strike and realize their experiments may be compromised as a result of schedule shifting. They have all been very supportive and understanding, though disappointed somewhat with the realization that their experiments might not be run. But they are certainly in agreement that the crew’s safety is the top priority.”

  “Hi, Tara Wilkens, Associated Press. Will we be able to watch the spacewalk live? Will we be able to see the amount of wing damage?”

  “Not with the way EVA procedures stand at this time,” Senca answered. “The cargo bay of Columbia was not fitted with the cameras we typically use for spacewalks because there were no planned spacewalks for this mission. We are looking into possibly taping a handheld video camera to the helmet of the second EVA astronaut so the wing damage can be seen by Mission Control. But that video will have to be downlinked from Columbia after the EVA is completed. If we do get video footage, it won’t be released until late in the day tomorrow.”

  Stangley stood in the third row, sensing Senca was through with his answer. Fifteen other reporters also were standing, ready with questions for the panel. Stangley was in Houston, back from the dead, at a NASA press conference no less, ready with a question of his own.

  The moderator motioned his way but he was not sure if it was for him or for the woman next to him, from the Houston something or other, looked like the Chronicle, but her press credential was twisted on its chain. He thought he heard the moderator say, “Go ahead, John.” My first name, how does he know my first… I’ve never met… don’t think I’ve ever seen him.

  Eyes throughout the room were on Stangley now, and he could feel them.

  “John Stangley, CNN,” he said, surprised as anyone to be hearing that name again.

  Like it or not I’m back. And now it’s time to ask the question that needs to be asked. I can’t believe you people missed this one. You mean, no one thought to ask? Maybe I’ve been away longer than I thought. You ask important questions, like, will the astronauts have breakfast before or after the spacewalk? But no one wonders what will happen if… It couldn’t be more obvious. Well, step aside then, here come the big guns.

  He directed his focus on Pollard, Chair of the Mission Management Team, figuring she’d be the one to answer.

  “We’ve talked about the spacewalk in great detail today, and I’m glad we’ll have a sense of what the astronauts will be going through tomorrow. But what if the wing is severely damaged?” Stangley watched Pollard shift in her chair. “What if there is catastrophic wing damage and the damage is such that it will not support reentry, then what? Can you talk about what contingency plans are in place for such a problem?”

  Stangley had hit it deep, near the center line, a perfect first serve, and it was surely an ace. He could feel that, too.

  “Good question,” the woman next to him said out of the corner of her mouth.

  Pollard was up.

  She shifted again, gently cleared her throat, and performed a few well-known human stall methods until she was ready.

  You can do this.

  She thought carefully, knowing that almost anything she said would likely generate another 50 questions. She flashed back to yesterday’s Mission Management Meeting, when she told the group what needed to be done. She had written it on the whiteboard at the front of the room. A simple six-letter word.

  R-E-S-C-U-E.

  “We are currently performing an In-Flight Options Assessment for STS-107,” Pollard began. “In the event severe wing damage is found during the wing inspection EVA tomorrow…”

  Chapter 13

  Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday

  Flight Day 5

  Monday, Jan. 20, 2003

  JIM HADLEY, AN ASTRONAUT HIMSELF, served as the communications middleman between Columbia and Houston. He was referred to as the CapCom, short for capsule communicator, a term left over from the early space-capsule days at NASA.

  He was standing at his console in Mission Control now, reviewing his notes, trying to imagine what his friends, his colleagues in space, were feeling. He glanced at Allan Warner, who was seated at the console to his left. Warner glanced back, giving him a nod—Warner knew Hadley had a tough job, one that wouldn’t soon end.

  Keep a steady voice, stay upbeat. The crew will be listening carefully to what I say—not just the words I use, but the subtle changes in my voice, Hadley told himself. He knew it to be true, the way astronauts develop a keen sense of listening. Even over the Comm channel, with its grainy crackle, astronauts had learned how to glean minute details about their particular predicament from the CapCom. It was as if the CapCom were secretly able to communicate with a crew without Mission Control becoming aware, as if a secret code were embedded in their speech, code perhaps only astronauts could hear.

  “Columbia, Houston, for Jan and Steve, we know you’re just about ready to start your EVA. Ah, just wanted to give you a heads up. Remember, once you’re out of the airlock—Jan especially for you since you’re first out—make sure you watch out for the airlock-tunnel support brackets mounted to the payload bay floor. They’re just forward of the SpaceHab module. And also, remember to stay high enough so you’re clear of the radiators.”

  Hadley empathized with Jan and Steve, having performed several EVAs himself. But he had never done so in a contingency situation, never without countless hours of preparation and training.

  “This is Jan. We copy, Houston.”

  “Jan, also before you leave the airlock, it’s imperative that you clip Steve’s retractable tether to your suit. As soon as you get to the port slide wire, connect your tether. Then we want you to disconnect Steve’s tether from your suit and reattach it to the slide wire.”

  “Roger that.”

  Tiny speakers, made small to save space and weight, filled their helmets with the CapCom’s voice. The sound was somewhat harsh, distorted slightly, almost breaking up at the edges. Despite the low fidelity, the voice inside their helmets imparted a certain companionship, and distraction, too, especially for Jan, who was becoming aware of a growing feeling of claustrophobia inside the tiny airlock. She started to tell herself that this was what she had trained for, but before she could finish the thought, the harsh reality hit: She had not trained for this spacewalk.

  The voice of CapCom continued.

  “About two-thirds of the way aft in the payload bay, you will find a space between the aft end of SpaceHab and the forward aspect of the FREESTAR experiment payload.”

  Jan was now only half-listening to Mission Control. She had become aware of faint perspiration on her face, not because she could see it or touch it, but because the air inside her helmet felt suddenly cooler. Cooler is usually better, except that Jan realized the flash of heat she’d just felt was the kind that precedes the moment you realize you’re not feeling so well. If she could just get out of the airlock, get out into space, she thought—what astronauts refer to as “getting fresh air”—maybe she would feel better.

  It reminded her of her first training jump at Beale Air Force Base. She had gotten to the top of the platform and was pumped up for the jump. She had thought that if she could be first in her group to go—and not have to wait around—it would be easier. But the instructor had gone on relentlessly, covering every conceivable contingency, reviewing all the precautions, the equipment checks and last-minute reminders. He had brought her fear right up to the surface. She remembered how she had felt sweaty and nauseous then.

  “The wing area to be inspected,” said the CapCom, “is in the vicinity of RCC panels 6 through 9. This is the point where Jan will go over the payload bay door looking for wing damage and, if necessary, Steve will climb down farther to better view the underside of the wing.”

  Jan heard her name. How long had Mission Control been talking, she wondered, and had she missed anything important? C
hoosing to avoid embarrassment, she did not ask for a re-call from Houston. She knew what to do; she had studied the procedures with Steve and the rest of the crew and, frankly, she did not think it was all that complicated or difficult—she just needed to get out there and do her job.

  The EVA procedure seemed simple enough. There was nothing they would have to fix; it was just a wing inspection. No fancy EVA tools would be needed, and there were no satellites they would have to wrestle out of their berths. The astronauts had a mind-numbing list of steps to follow in their final preparations to leave the airlock. Since the preparation for the spacewalk had been done only on paper, and not through countless simulations on Earth, Houston’s reorientation to the payload bay through step-by-step reminders was clearly welcomed.

  Jan made eye contact with Steve and nodded.

  “Copy that, Houston, we’ll stay up above the payload bay, and thanks for the heads up,” Steve answered for the two of them.

  A minute-and-a-half passed in silence. During this time, Columbia’s commander gave Jan and Steve a thumbs-up, then closed the hatch between Columbia’s mid-deck and the airlock. The hatch actuator latches engaged with a click and a thud that resounded on both the flight and mid-decks. The commander then rotated the hatch actuator handle one-and-a-quarter turns to seat the airlock gaskets and to lock the actuator latches. He looked back into the airlock through the small, 4-inch-diameter window in the hatch, and gave another thumbs-up.

  The fully suited astronauts floated in Columbia’s airlock, a vertically oriented cylinder mounted between the payload bay and the mid-deck that measured a mere 63 inches in diameter by 83 inches in height. Jan and Steve both gave a thumbs-up back to the commander. All three hatches were closed now, and the process of airlock pressure bleed-down commenced.

  FOUR HOURS LATER, the astronauts heard: “One-Oh-Seven, Houston, you’re go for EVA when ready. We show your pre-breathe is complete.”

  Nitrogen narcosis, nitrogen sickness, Caisson disease, the bends—all are names for the same problem, a problem with deadly potential. It is as real a phenomenon for astronauts as it is for scuba divers. Venturing out into space exposes astronauts to the same risks and dangers scuba divers face. Both environments are equally harsh. Both environments are equally able to take a life as a result of even simple equipment malfunctions, or careless disrespect.

  The atmosphere inside Columbia was of the same composition and pressure as on Earth—roughly 80 percent nitrogen and 20 percent oxygen. To prevent the bends, Columbia’s astronauts had to breathe pure oxygen for at least four hours prior to their spacewalk. This tedious procedure was necessary to prevent the nitrogen, normally dissolved in blood, from transforming into bubbles, deadly bubbles that have a way of lodging in all the wrong places—places like joints, causing crippling pain, or worse, in potentially lethal places like the coronary or carotid arteries.

  The pre-breathe procedure followed by astronauts prior to going out into space provided each astronaut’s body the necessary transition from the atmospheric environment of Columbia to that of the spacesuit—from breathing essentially room-air to the marked decrease in pressure and 100 percent oxygen of their spacesuits. Normally, when spacewalks were part of the mission plan, the entire cabin of the orbiter was decompressed at least 24 hours prior to the start of the spacewalk. Then the EVA astronauts need only a 30-40-minute pre-breathe before going out into space. Since NASA needed to know the status of the wing as soon as possible, the fastest way to get astronauts out on the wing was with the four-hour pre-breathe procedure inside Columbia’s airlock.

  “Houston, we copy go for EVA, and report air-leak-checks are complete and negative,” Steve responded.

  The air-leak-checks showed both spacesuits to be free of air-leaks at the junctions between the pants and torso sections, between the gloves and sleeves, and between the helmets and suit collars.

  Jan and Steve then performed a communication check with Columbia’s flight-deck.

  “Flight deck, comm check, this is Steve.”

  “Steve, flight-deck, we hear you loud and clear.”

  “Flight deck, comm check, this is Jan.”

  “Jan, flight-deck, we hear you too—good luck out there. We’ll be watching you two from the aft flight-deck windows. Don’t forget to enjoy the view.”

  “Roger that,” Jan and Steve said in unison.

  “Houston, Columbia, stand by for EVA hatch opening.”

  Jan grabbed the hatch actuator handle, braced her legs against the interior of the airlock, and applied the requisite 10 pounds of force to the handle, moving it through 180 degrees. The actuators unlatched. She continued turning the handle another 260 degrees, the amount necessary to fully disengage the actuators. She pulled on the hatch handholds and the D-shaped hatch opened in on its hinges, extending down toward them into the airlock, further crowding their space.

  “Not a cloud in the sky, Houston,” Jan remarked as she looked out into space through the 36-inch-wide hatch opening.

  “Copy that, Jan… One last reminder for Jan and Steve—don’t forget your SCU disconnect before heading out.”

  “Good thought, Houston. We’re both ready to shoot out of this tube—copy SCU disconnect.”

  The astronauts pulled the SCU (Servicing and Cooling Umbilical) cords from their suits. The umbilical cords connected their spacesuits directly to Columbia’s systems, like a battery connected to a charger, except that in addition to providing electrical power, Columbia’s systems also provided cooling, water and oxygen to their spacesuits. When the umbilicals were pulled, the EMUs (Extravehicular Mobility Unit—the specialized spacesuits used for spacewalks) switched automatically to their own power and resources. The astronauts were now self-contained in their suits; they had battery power for systems-monitoring and to run the suits, cooling systems, and oxygen tanks supplied that glorious life-sustaining hiss into their helmets.

  All suit systems were go, and Earth waited.

  “Houston, I’m heading out of the airlock now,” Jan said as she slowly pulled herself through the opening. Steve’s tether began unwinding, yielding to the progress Jan was making towards the slide wire. She was out of Steve’s sight now, but his tether continued to unwind, the steel cable spilling over the edge of the airlock in her direction. Steve remained still as she did this, safely secured by his grip on the airlock handholds.

  Within several minutes she was at the port slide wire and had clipped in with her own tether, also a retractable, self-winding, 35-foot cable.

  “Okay, Houston, I’m at the port slide wire, I’ve just clipped my tether to the slide wire and… Alright, Steve’s tether is now off my suit and on the slide wire as well.”

  “Jan, we copy both tethers to the slide wire.”

  Jan made her way aft along the slide wire, but was not able to see the leading edge of the wing in the region of RCC panels 6 through 9.

  “Houston, I still have a negative visual of the leading edge of the wing as I travel aft on the slide wire. The payload bay doors are blocking my view.”

  “We copy you, Jan. We expected a negative visual,” CapCom responded. “You’ll need to climb over the payload bay doors when you get to your mark.”

  “Copy that.”

  Steve stayed in the airlock waiting for his cue. Earlier, during his pre-breathe, he had convinced Houston to let him use a non-approved EVA camera to film any wing damage he might find. Since STS-107 was a mission that was designed to serve as a weightless laboratory, with no spacewalks necessary or planned, Columbia was not prepped with the special EVA helmet cameras that were capable of transmitting live video to Mission Control during spacewalks. Steve’s camera could capture video for Mission Control, but he would have to downlink it after the EVA was complete—there was no way to send a live video stream. Steve had proposed using the same camera he used to film the external tank separation from the flight deck during launch—a Sony PD-100. Houston’s issue was not whether or not the camera could record the damage; rat
her, they were worried the astronaut would not be able to safely attach the camera to his helmet. Carrying the camera by hand, all the way out to the wing, was not an acceptable risk. But Steve and the commander had found a way, using gray tape (what NASA calls duct tape), to affix the camera to his helmet with only minor loss of view out of the right side and top of the helmet. The two of them soon worried about a much bigger challenge—would Steve be able to start the recording once he was fully suited and his gloves were in place? The record button was small and tricky to push even for the ungloved hand; using the spacesuit’s oversized, tactile-starved gloves would make the task even more challenging.

  They would get their answer soon enough.

  More than 30 minutes had elapsed since Jan first left the airlock, and Steve was growing weary; he wanted to act. He hovered near the airlock directly over the payload bay, anxiously awaiting her report, all the while hoping she would not be able to quantify the wing damage alone—that she would need help, his help. Steve hated the thought that he may have gone through the whole process of pre-breathe and suiting-up for nothing more than hanging out in the open airlock.

  “Houston, I’m at my mark, and I’m ready to climb out over the payload bay doors now,” Jan announced.

  Up on the flight deck, the other four crew members watched Jan as she began her climb. Experiments on Columbia had been suspended—the access to the SpaceHab module was closed due to the use of the airlock for the EVA. They were still hopeful that the wing would be found intact so they could resume their work. But as the EVA wore on, and the ramifications of a damaged wing sank in, a quiet came over them; they began to worry as they watched their fellow crew member out in the payload bay.

  Jan eased out over the payload bay door, her tether reel beginning to tug at her waist. She repositioned herself, checked her purchase. As her helmet reached the edge of the payload bay door, she looked up and there it was: Earth, staring back at her brighter and bigger than she remembered. She briefly became disoriented, a little dizzy, nauseous even, as Earth turned below her. She took two deep breaths, grasping the payload bay door, hoping the spinning would stop. Columbia, of course, was orbiting Earth at over 17,000 miles per hour, but there was no sense of this speed. It was not like the sense of speed you get while driving down a highway, whizzing past trees and buildings and other stationary objects. Astronauts performing spacewalks had none of those visual cues of speed.