Right now, though, Jan is mostly physically uncomfortable in her spacesuit. She knows she’s fortunate to be out on a contingency EVA, that it’s the kind of thing we wish for. With all the tedious training we do on the ground for activities in space, well, sometimes it feels so rehearsed that when we get into space—I was going to say it’s almost boring, but no it’s not that, because that would be the wrong word for it. It’s more that our actions become robotic in nature, one movement after another, as we follow the well-rehearsed choreography from the procedures cards. So, when a contingency comes along, it gets everyone’s attention, and things get interesting. We’re given the chance to think in space. It’s what we as astronauts live for—and it’s what gives NASA engineers nightmares.
“Houston, Steve here, I’m at my mark.”
“We copy you, Steve, we’re ready when you are.”
I use the payload bay door to help rotate myself so I can go down onto the wing, facing Jan’s back, like when you back down a ladder.
“Jan, I’m above you now and I’m about to grab your backpack… let me just get my right hand… now my left. Okay, I’m there.”
“Okay, Steve, copy that, I’m holding steady.”
“Houston, I’m heading down to the leading edge.”
“Houston, for Steve, we copy.”
Hand over careful hand, I descend Jan’s backpack, my waist tether shifting back and forth on the slide wire above, mimicking my movements. Then I grip her spacesuit pants, backs of her knees and finally the strap around her left ankle.
“Houston, I’m at the strap.”
“We copy, and we wait for your report.”
I slip my left glove through Jan’s ankle tether, then close my hand tight just below the buckle. I push against the tether gently so I can move lower on the wing. I am now suspended from the tether, my left arm stretched up over my head, my feet dangling below me, pointing out into the nothingness of space. My helmet is directly in line with the leading edge of Columbia’s left wing.
As close as I am now to the wing, I still can’t see much of anything. I even lift my mirrored outer visor briefly, but it doesn’t help much, just makes me squint more. Our orbiter is backlit by the sun, giving the wing a white halo effect. It’s like in a photograph where the subjects are backlit and their faces become almost indistinguishable; the easiest way to combat this problem of course is to use a flash. I don’t have a camera flash with me, and the light on my helmet-mounted video camera has been turned off to save the battery—there is no way I can turn it on now. But I do have my helmet lights.
I look down past the inside lower edge of my helmet out to the control module of my spacesuit. It’s similar to a dashboard on a car, in that it has displays, controls and various function selectors. All the knobs and switches are labeled and oriented so that I can read them as I look down at them. I have four lights on my helmet, two on each side, and each one can be turned on or off separately from the control module.
I reach down and turn on all four lights at once.
When they come on, the strangest thing happens. The matte-black color of the RCC panels at the edge of the wing, and the thermal tiles just below the panels, begin shining back at me, reflecting the light from my helmet.
Light is being reflected back at me! This is not a good sign.
I realize the source of the reflection. It is the polished stainless steel attachment fittings and the aluminum alloy trusses. Vital internal wing components are reflecting the light from my helmet.
It is then that I know we are screwed.
“Columbia, Houston for Steve… we’re standing by for your report, over.”
I am the only person in the world—universe, really—who knows how bad the damage is. What can I say to Houston? I just want to be alone for a while. Now I, too, don’t feel so well. When they hear the news, they, being Houston, will feel compelled to say something to make us all feel better. But really, what options do we have?
This bird ain’t comin’ home.
Soon, everyone will know. They are all patched in to my comm channel—Jan, the crew, Houston, and probably another several hundred people throughout NASA. I can picture them perfectly: Nearly everyone is standing from the anxiety of the moment, either tapping out worried rhythms on their consoles or pacing back and forth.
I stall as long as I can. I know I have less than 30 seconds of dead air before Houston pleads for a response. I take another look at the hole with its sharp terrible edges. The wound might as well be in me, a full-thickness tear in my spacesuit or a crack in my helmet—for I am as dead as Columbia is.
I look away, overhead, up past Jan at the semicircle of Earth that is in view. Somewhere down there, my wife, even at this early morning hour, is busying herself with menial tasks. It is what astronaut spouses do when their loved ones are assigned a contingency spacewalk, especially when the objective is to scout for damage. I imagine her briskly pacing from one room to another, straightening as she goes, picking up a stray pair of scissors, a hair clip, a single sock, and depositing each item in its proper place. Then she is on to the family room, where the kids are watching the Disney Channel. She calls out something to them—something like: “Fifteen more minutes and then I want you to turn that thing off.” My kids respond with a solitary grunt.
And here I am floating just 175 miles from home, less than three hours by car. It is hardly an insurmountable distance, and yet my separation from them seems final—I’ll never be able to close the distance.
The engineers at Mission Control and throughout NASA are about to find out things aboard Columbia are worse than they feared. A lot worse.
I clear the sentimental lump from my throat, then speak, hesitating like an engine thin on fuel.
“Houston, ah, it’s not good.”
“Ah, Steve, say again, we did not copy your last.”
“Houston, ah, we’ve sustained catastrophic wing damage.”
“Steve, describe for us what you see,” the CapCom replies in a tone devoid of concern, as if I have just said “space is black” or “the Orbiter is white.”
“Okay.” I pause, giving them time to prepare themselves. “There is some streaking over the top of the wing as Jan described, but that’s hardly the problem. RCC panel 8 is completely gone, like it was torn from the wing. Panels 5, 6, and 7 are also damaged. I can see deep into the wing… It’s not something the crew can fix … The wing’s a ragged mess.”
“Ah, Columbia, we copy. Ah…” I can hear a confusion of voices over the comm channel. I can’t discern one from another. Then CapCom comes back on.
“Columbia, ah…” The comm channel clicks.
“Columbia, stand by, over.”
Chapter 18
Johnson Space Center, Houston
Mission Control Center
“HOW WE COMING WITH the KU-band downlink from Columbia?” Reid Hamilton asked, while leaning over Allen Warner’s console.
“It’ll be down any…,” Warner paused to look at the progress bar on his computer monitor. “It’ll be down in 23 seconds to be exact, Reid.”
Hamilton sighed as he covered his face with his hands. “What a frickin’ mess,” he muttered quietly through his fingers. His impatience was growing as the minutes passed, minutes he knew they would never get back. The pressure on him had been building like a crushing vice; one side was the need to find out what was wrong with Columbia, and the other, what to do about it. Now NASA personnel were swarming the Control Center, promising to turn the crank some more.
The entire Mission Management Team flocked to the center, including engineers from every conceivable department, flight controllers and engineers from the night shift and, of course, Ken Brown. They filled every inch of floor space, adding heat and further tension to the already worried staff present. The room looked like a dream team roster of NASA heavy hitters.
The doubting Thomases had all come to see this video they had heard about, but found too terrible to believe without actu
ally seeing it themselves. They thought about all their careful work, and the agonizing procedures and lengthy checklists they’d had to follow, even just to back out a simple screw. Managers from every department were now questioning their role in Columbia’s fate.
Two of the three huge screens at the front of the room flickered. Above the screens, illuminated in royal blue letters, was a reminder of where they were: Mission Control Center. To the left of the screens hung the American flag, respectfully lit with a single spotlight. The center screen continued to display Columbia’s orbital path, a sinusoidal wave superimposed over a flattened, digital map of Earth. Heads turned to face the giant screens. The Quicktime movie-window appeared on the left and right screens and on at least one monitor at every console. The computer began buffering the video for playback displaying 67, 79, 86, 97 percent.
The video started.
There was no audio track to accompany the video they were watching. The videocamera’s microphone had been dead in space; it had searched aimlessly for sound waves and had found none. But most who were watching now had heard Columbia’s live audio transmission of the wing-inspection EVA. They remembered Steve’s carefree comments as he struggled to get the camera working, his urging of Mission Control to use the camera in the first place, his encouraging words to Jan to hang tight and his boyish excitement to be out in space.
The initial minute or so of video was jittery and helplessly out of focus, as the camera’s lens struggled with a view of infinity. Earth, the payload bay, Earth, the payload bay, the wing, then Steve translating along the slide wire, and Jan lifting the visor of her helmet. The waiting was painful.
“Let’s get to it,” Brown blurted out to Warner in his not-so-subtle way. Brown was standing three feet from Warner’s console. Most heads turned to look back. It was Brown to be sure, his comment breaking the silence of the room.
Warner obliged by grabbing the mouse on his desk and moving the video playback slider an inch or so to the right. There was a re-buffering pause, then the video continued with a glimpse of Jan’s helmet, her backpack.
“Much better,” Brown said, still the only one in the room to speak. Hamilton nodded to Warner.
The video images now showed only an occasional shake, and the auto-focus lens had settled on objects less than three feet away. They watched silently, with no coughs, no talking, just the sound of the air-conditioning fan cycling above them.
Steve was slipping his hand through Jan’s ankle tether. They knew it was close.
When the camera on Steve’s helmet was in line with the wing’s leading edge, not much could be seen. The video image had grown dark, too dark to make out any detail, certainly too dark to see the damage. A few moments passed and then the four lights on Steve’s helmet came on, overwhelming the white-balance of the camera. The viewing screens at Mission Control now were an almost solid white.
Brown was pacing, ready to crawl out of his skin, eager to get to the important part. With all his years at NASA, all his experience using computers to extract the truth from his videos, he was left powerless with this one. A video camera gray-taped to an astronaut’s head. This was the best we could do? It was, in fact, and NASA was lucky to have it.
The very first reactions were gasps—nothing much else, just gasps. There was shock too; but those who were shocked were choked into silence.
By now the camera’s white-balance had adjusted to the bright lights of Steve’s helmet. All those with eyes trained on the monitors at Mission Control expected to get their first look at Columbia’s wing, but instead got their first look into Columbia’s wing. They saw what had been described to them by Steve just hours earlier. The A-286 stainless-steel two-piece spar attachment fittings, specially designed brackets that allowed the RCC panels to be attached to the aluminum wing frame, were in fact gleaming in the glow of Steve’s four helmet lights. This was bad. Reactions were slowly building; the engineers began to verbalize what they were thinking. Then the room suddenly fell silent again. The video had shown a close-up shot of the wing damage, without reference. But now the video showed Steve’s hand adjacent to the wing damage on the edge of a remaining RCC panel. His oversized, gloved-hand was dwarfed by the extensive wing damage.
The video would not have to be replayed for its meaning to take hold. Brown and his photo guys wouldn’t have to watch it repeatedly, scavenging for clues, or run it through a computer to enhance the color or the image quality. NASA’s question about Columbia’s wing damage had definitively been answered.
The engineers at Mission Control Center, particularly the structural engineers, were acutely aware of the implications of the wing damage. Their conclusions were all in sync.
Columbia’s left wing, with nearly three RCC panels missing, was clearly incapable of supporting a return flight. This conclusion was drawn not from laborious calculations or intense consideration, but rather from a basic understanding of the orbiter wing’s fundamental design elements.
The internal structures give strength and shape to the wing. The external structures shield the internal parts from extreme heat.
The outside temperature during reentry can reach 2,500 degrees.
Internal wing components hewn from aluminum melt at only 1,200 degrees.
Chapter 19
Johnson Space Center, Houston
Mission Control Center
JOSEPH SENCA WAS STANDING in the main aisle of the Mission Control Center when the sound of Warner’s voice came roaring, announcing itself like a thunderclap. Warner was yelling, demanding answers.
Senca was only 20 feet away, but he and Warner were separated by more than 50 people. Senca began snaking toward the flight director’s console immediately upon hearing his name, passing through the crowd of engineers who were struggling to be heard; each was certain his or her perspective on the problem was the right one.
But Senca knew he and his Tiger Team had the answers—they had spent the past 48 hours working the problem and, of course, second-guessing themselves before finally agreeing again.
Senca was brimming with nervous excitement as he approached the console. This problem with Columbia, Senca thought, was far bigger than most realized. But Senca was ready—ready to plant the flag on the summit of this, the pinnacle of his career.
“Where is the Tiger Team on this?” Warner demanded.
“We need to get Columbia powered down immediately,” Senca said, approaching the Flight Director’s console. “Not soon, but right now.”
Senca wasn’t the senior-most person in the room; but everyone knew that he, along with his Tiger Team, had been assessing Columbia’s in-flight options. Members of the Tiger Team were the only ones who had any idea about what could be done to save the crew of Columbia.
“All right, save your long-winded details for your presentation to the Mission Management Team. Just tell me the first step—what do we need to do first?” Warner asked, trusting that Senca knew the way.
“Power down Columbia now!” Senca exclaimed. “That is the first critical step.”
“Okay, give me the procedures and we’ll get it started.”
Senca reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers—the Tiger Team’s seven-page checklist for Columbia’s power-down. He began to hand it to Warner, then hesitated. “I haven’t even presented this to the Mission Management Team yet… you know the chain of command and all that.”
“It’s not like they’re going to say no to it. We’ll start this right now,” Warner said, glancing at the first page.
Senca hesitated still. “I guess if it were me up there, I’d want you to get started immediately, too, but… ah screw it, start the power-down… and good luck with the crew. Tell them we’ll give them all the info in a few hours or so. I’ll be in the Mission Management Meeting if you need me,” Senca said, walking backwards away from Warner’s console.
Warner immediately began yelling again. “Get to your consoles. We’re doing a Group C power-down,” he said. “I wa
nt everyone watching their monitors as we start the power-down.”
Chapter 20
Johnson Space Center, Houston
Mission Management Team Meeting
Flight Day 5
Monday, Jan. 20, 2003
“THE MOST IMPORTANT FIRST STEP is to power down Columbia. Without a power-down we have no options,” Joseph Senca stressed to the Mission Management Team and the hundred-plus engineers who packed the large conference room at the Johnson Space Center. “And we need to do it now, right now, not even 30 minutes from now. So I’ve given the power-down procedures to Warner, and he’s going to get them started.”
The Mission Management Team was listening to Senca intently, and sensed he was aware he had stepped out of bounds, but not one of them uttered a single complaint. They collectively were grateful, actually, that someone seemed to know what to do, that maybe there was at least one more good mile of track before this train jumped its rail.
“Now, the Tiger Team members and I know you will likely have questions, concerns, and possibly differing opinions,” Senca said. “We welcome your scrutiny and feel it’s necessary; but please understand we won’t have time for long debates about our procedures.
“I’m going to go through the things we can’t do for Columbia first, and I know that may seem backwards to some of you. But bear with me, because I think it will help open your minds for when it comes time to tell you what we can do, what we must do for the crew.
“As we all saw in the video, Columbia has sustained catastrophic wing damage. When the team began preparing for contingencies, preparing for a worst-case scenario, we entertained the possibility that if the wing were damaged, it might be repairable in space, or at least modifiable in such a way as to support a crew bailout. Having now seen the size of the hole—the amount of wing damage—it’s obvious that no effective wing repair effort could be performed in space with the crew’s limited resources—especially when you consider that for a bailout, Columbia would have to slow to subsonic speeds, and descend to an altitude below 35,000 feet. Anything higher or faster than that, as you know, and we risk astronaut escape-pole failure, flail injuries and spacesuit and/or parachute failures. It’s unlikely we could repair the wing well enough to keep it from disintegrating and in turn the orbiter from breaking up. So repairing the wing in space is out, we feel, and therefore crew bailout is out.
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