Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  “The next thing we looked at was using the ISS [International Space Station] as a possible safe haven. Unfortunately, that option is dead, as well, and here’s why: Since Columbia’s inclination to orbit is 39 degrees, and the ISS is at 51.6 degrees, a translational OMS burn [Columbia’s Orbiter Maneuvering System] would be required at a rate of 12,600-feet-per-second to effect a rendezvous with the Space Station. Columbia has only enough propellant for a 448-feet-per-second burn, making rendezvous with the ISS impossible. They simply can’t catch the station.”

  The conference room was quiet, with hardly a stir. And so far, there had been no objections to Senca’s analysis. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and put a few seconds between what the roomful of engineers knew now and what they were about to hear.

  “The only option for the crew of Columbia, the only chance they have for a return to Earth, is if we go get them,” Senca said, pausing to let his words take hold.

  Pollard, still serving as the Mission Management Team Chair, sat taller now, and in doing so, caught Senca’s attention. They exchanged a subtle nod; they had an understanding. What Pollard had suggested to the group just two days ago with the single word “RESCUE” she had written on the white-board—which at the time had seemed like such an overstatement, a pessimistic view almost of Columbia’s situation—was now in fact the crew’s only option, NASA’s only option.

  Thousands of NASA personnel would be required to execute the Tiger Team’s plan. Software would have to be rewritten and calculations made. Three shifts of ground crew would work round the clock. The whole process of assembling a rocket ship, getting the astronauts sufficiently trained, launching in time—all without making any mistakes—well, it had never been done before.

  Every step in the preparation to launch would have to be shortened, rushed. NASA would have to expose another orbiter and crew to potentially the same damage Columbia had sustained. There would be no time to make changes or upgrades to the external tank.

  Who ever heard of such a thing?

  Rescue was the only option. For the crew to survive, they would have to be rescued.

  Senca listened to the crowded room of engineers. He realized he’d been thinking about crew options for 48 hours. These engineers needed time to process the information he’d given them. So he sat back on the conference table quietly and waited.

  Chapter 21

  On Columbia

  “COLUMBIA, HOUSTON FOR THE CREW,” the CapCom said.

  “Read you loud and clear, Jim. What have you got for us?”

  “Well, we just saw your EVA video—there’s a lot of disbelief around here, I gotta tell you.

  “Yeah, it’s hard for us to watch, as well.”

  “I know your minds are racing right now. But you need to hang tight. We’re in this with you, and we’re all gonna take it one step at a time.”

  Warner had met with Jim Hadley, Columbia’s CapCom, and explained that information given to the crew was on a need-to-know basis only. With that in mind, Hadley did what he could to assure the crew that NASA actually knew what to do in this situation. Communicating with astronauts in space had always been a smooth process for him—he felt like he was good at it. But this problem with the wing, this rescue mission, was going to be a lot bigger than anything he had ever worked a crew through before. There was no way NASA was going to replace Hadley with someone more experienced though, not now—not right after a crew discovers their spaceship is irreparable. Nothing would scream, “You’re in a world of shit” louder than that.

  “We have a Group C system power-down procedure for you. We need you to start conserving consumables ASAP.”

  “Copy that, Houston.”

  “I’m gonna take you through each item step by step…”

  When Columbia’s crew heard “Group C” power-down, they knew their mission was over, at least from a research standpoint. All power to the payload equipment would be turned off and all experiments would be stopped. The data downlink to the ground would be terminated, the KU-band antenna stowed. Columbia’s power would essentially be cut in half, reducing the average mission power level to just 9.4 kilowatts.

  Performing the Group C power-down, with its long list of cutbacks, would not just impact the science aspect of the mission; it would also attack the astronauts’ way of life onboard Columbia. Not only would the astronauts’ time in space be doubled, they would have to do it with a power-crippled spacecraft. All video equipment, cameras and TV monitors would be turned off. The crew galley would be turned off. Even the orbiter’s cabin-air-cleaner fan would be limited, its speed reduced to medium or below. The crew would have one laptop computer powered just 25 percent of the time for e-mail communication.

  Columbia’s five general purpose computers (GPC) also would be scaled way back. GPC 1 would be left on to allow basic vehicle control, GPC 3 would be set at one-quarter power to allow for systems monitoring, GPC 5 would be left in sleep mode, and GPCs 2 and 4 would be turned off completely.

  The astronauts quietly went through their Group C power-down checklist, busying themselves in their work, one step at a time. They knew NASA protocol; information would be slow in coming and limited, as well. They wondered in what other ways they would be squeezed in the coming days.

  Power? Food? Water? Oxygen?

  Chapter 22

  Johnson Space Center, Houston

  Mission Management Team Meeting (continued)

  SENCA SENSED CONTROL of his presentation was lost, but fatigue had visited every last receptor site in his body, and he frankly did not much care. In fact, he reveled in the few moments he had now, half-sitting on the conference table, arms and shoulders hanging forward, spine flexed, staring down at the floor with thoughts swirling, caught in a mental eddy where even the carpet pattern becomes interesting—the symmetries, the colors, the pattern repeat. Minutes passed without a single eye blink. He thought about what an exhilarating assignment this had been from Pollard—to work out the details of a rescue plan with his team of experts.

  He waited, letting the group discuss their concerns, his mind drifting back to when he and his Tiger Team first began talking about their worst-case-scenario plan for Columbia, a plan that would have NASA sending Atlantis up to rescue the crew. It still sounded like a reasonable option: sending up one shuttle to rescue another, especially since Atlantis was already in the Orbiter Processing Facility at the Kennedy Space Center getting prepped for STS-114, a March 1, 2003, trip to the International Space Station.

  On its current schedule and pace, which allowed for every last detail to be triple-checked by NASA’s experts, Atlantis would be ready for launch in 41 days.

  As the crowded room of engineers at the Mission Management Team meeting recovered from the shock of Senca’s proposal, of his seemingly mad notion of a rescue mission—Senca wondered, too, if he and his team had really thought of everything. Was it really possible, he wondered, to go get the crew of Columbia?

  “We need to discuss the details of the plan,” Senca finally found the energy to say. But it was a weak, torn-bellows attempt at speech. His voice carried only 20 feet. He slid off the conference table, willing his legs to move.

  Those standing took their seats, the talking faded and Senca readied his notes.

  “We need to discuss the details of the rescue plan, because until you are all behind it, Columbia’s crew won’t have a chance. The plan starts today, people, not a week from now. The rush to get Atlantis to the pad starts today.”

  And with that, Senca had shocked the group into absolute silence, as if until that very moment they had not fully understood the seriousness of the situation.

  There, I have their attention now, Senca thought.

  “Well, just like with Apollo 13, the limiting factor for the crew of Columbia is lithium hydroxide (LiOH),” Senca began again, referencing Apollo 13’s historic problem-solving mission and its square-versus-round-shaped LiOH canisters.

  The problem with Columbia, though, wasn
’t with a mismatch of canister shapes as it was with Apollo 13, but rather with the quantity of canisters on board. Lithium hydroxide functions as an atmospheric scrubber, ridding Columbia’s cabin of crew-exhaled carbon dioxide (CO2). The LiOH canisters were connected in-line with the orbiter’s air circulation system acting like special air filters—they made the spaceship’s atmosphere livable, safe and sustainable. But the canisters didn’t use a paper element to perform their function. Instead, a chemical reaction occurred inside the canister, where the LiOH worked extremely well as a sorbent for CO2. The net reaction produced two moles of water, while absorbing a single mole of CO2. Columbia had carried a total of 69 LiOH canisters into space, more than enough for the planned 16-day mission.

  “Our first consideration was how long we could make the onboard supply of LiOH last,” Senca continued. “We had to find the crew’s average daily level of CO2 production. So we consulted with the flight surgeon and got actual crew data from flight days one through three. We used a metabolic rate that was an average between their waking and sleeping values. We ran the numbers two ways: first with an equal 12-hour wake/sleep cycle, and then with a 16/eight-hour wake/sleep cycle. In both cases, we assumed that the crew would not be exercising, and that all SpaceHab experiments would cease. Only minimal crew activity would be allowed. A Group C systems power-down will be necessary and as I said earlier, Warner is running the power-down with the crew right now. Oh, and the live animals in the AEMs [Animal Enclosure Module] must be euthanized.”

  There was no sign of hands in the room, so Senca continued, figuring they were with him or still in shock, or both.

  “The flight surgeon believes the crew could tolerate a CO2 level up to 3.5 percent, even though protocol says we terminate a mission if CO2 levels rise above 2.0 percent. No long-term health effects are expected at the higher level, and the crew does have access to pure oxygen if shortness of breath, headache or fatigue become acute.

  “So, with all that in the equation, the crew can be sustained until the morning of 15 February. That would be an MET [Mission Elapsed Time] of thirty-one-and-a-half days.”

  “We’ll never make it!” came a voice from three rows in, but Senca did not see who it was.

  “We have to make it—we, they, have no other option,” Senca replied to no one in particular.

  Comments shot from every direction in the room, but Senca let it happen, pausing like a physician after imparting bad news to a patient.

  “As you know,” Senca said loudly into the mike, wrangling the group back to order, “Atlantis is scheduled for March 1, which means her prep needs to get moved up 14 days.”

  Senca advanced to the next slide, which showed the new timeline.

  “We’re passing around Atlantis’s revised timeline now so you can follow along with me. It outlines how events will be cut or modified from the usual preparation timeline. We’ve consulted with the various departments to see how each process could be shortened. Remember, this is a preliminary plan, and is subject to change.”

  CAIB Report Vol. II, Appendix D.13, In-Flight Options Assessment, page 404

  Senca moved out from behind the podium and walked into the 10-foot-wide semicircle of empty space that separated the Mission Management Team from the audience of engineers. As Senca moved about, he was aware everyone was with him now, ready to hear what else he knew about this plan for Columbia’s crew.

  “I just want to say a few words before we review the timeline for rushing Atlantis to the pad.” Senca paused again, hoping the right words would come in time, that he would be able to sufficiently inspire these people.

  “The hurried plan for Atlantis leaves almost no margin for error. If we ultimately can’t launch Atlantis, we’ll lose the crew, either by a failed attempt of the crew to reenter with a hole in Columbia’s wing, or by the crew suffocating inside Columbia by the afternoon of flight day 31.

  “We need to start praying now that we have good weather when the launch windows open. We need to pray that everything goes right, that some sensor doesn’t cause us to scrub. We are going to be very tired people, mentally and physically exhausted. If we succeed, the rewards will be great not only for the astronauts and their families, but also for our mission here, our purpose here as an organization. We’re embarking on an ultra-marathon; it’s going to be a very long 20 to 25 days.

  “Regardless of your religious beliefs, I think it’s fair to say we’re going to need God’s help on this.”

  Chapter 23

  Inside Columbia’s SpaceHab Double Module

  COLUMBIA’S COMMANDER had just radioed Houston that the crew was about 30 minutes away from completing the Group C power-down on their mortally damaged spacecraft. The mid-deck and flight deck had taken on a dull, eerie, abandoned look and feel. Lighting had been cut to the bare basics. The normal level of light that had bathed the interior of Columbia, something all seven astronauts had become accustomed to over the past five days, was now considered a luxury.

  There would be no further luxuries aboard Columbia.

  Jan was alone now in the SpaceHab double module finishing with the power-down of the onboard laboratory that occupied Columbia’s payload bay. Her procedure list for the power-down outlined the specific order in which each piece of laboratory equipment should be turned off. The last item was SpaceHab’s general lighting. Even a partial power-down of the SpaceHab lighting now might cause her to make errors as she attended to the vast array of scientific equipment.

  Nothing could be missed—no power supplies left consuming, no hard disk drives left spinning.

  Hundreds of millions of dollars had been spent. Countless man-hours had been required to prepare 90 experiments for the mission. More than 70 international scientists anticipated the return of ground-breaking data.

  The entire laboratory was minutes away from a total loss.

  She started at the forward bulkhead, then moved aft along the port wall of SpaceHab. Every square inch was covered by a machine faceplate, a data patch-cord or a Post-it note. For each experiment, she first terminated the module’s data downlink to ground, and then cut the machine’s power. Whatever data had been contained within those devices was forever lost. She imagined an “available power” meter rising slightly with each switch she clicked, with each machine she killed.

  Man over machine.

  She grabbed the equipment rack mounted handles, carefully guiding her floating body through the spacecraft to each machine for power-down. As she went, she would reach down with sock-covered feet to grab a pair of loops. The entire floor of the SpaceHab module was fitted with foot loops, which were oriented in pairs that alternated by 90 degrees in their placement, allowing convenient positioning relative to SpaceHab’s interior.

  As she turned the machines off one by one, she watched the panel indicator lights fade toward the darkness of death and listened as their power-hungry cooling fans coasted to a stop. SpaceHab was growing progressively quieter.

  Jan periodically tore her clear plastic clipboard from her velcro-striped pants to check off completed items and to review what still needed to be done. Each time she checked the list, the unchecked box labeled “AEM - 3 modules” called out to her; but she moved on, deliberately ignoring this item.

  She knew the combined power draw of the three animal enclosure modules (AEM) was over 100 watts, and that the sooner they were turned off, the better. But it was not just the AEMs’ power consumption she was ignoring—the lab animals in the AEMs were also using up LiOH, Columbia’s lifeblood.

  The rats had to go.

  In addition to powering down the AEMs, Jan would need to harvest six LiOH canisters housed in the stowage lockers on the port side of the forward bulkhead—the six canisters that were to have been shared by the three AEMs during the 16-day mission. If the astronauts hoped to be rescued, hoped to survive in space long enough for NASA to ready Atlantis, they would need every canister they could get. Then they needed to stretch Columbia’s resources to their absolute
limits.

  Knowing all this, Jan still had left the AEMs until last. Before this very moment, she hadn’t been ready to face the reality of the task—and what it implied about her own situation.

  From a position midway fore and aft in SpaceHab, Jan looked up from her clipboard at the forward bulkhead; her toes extended up into the foot loops, counteracting the movements of her torso. Her checklist showed all boxes had been checked, all except for the AEMs.

  It was time.

  Jan had already communicated with NASA’s chief veterinarian. He had reviewed the procedure with her, talked her through the details. She knew what to do; she just did not want to do it.

  She velcroed her clipboard to her pants and made her way to SpaceHab’s forward bulkhead, then again blindly felt for a pair of toe loops to hold her in place. At waist height and in the middle of the bulkhead was the tunnel opening that led to Columbia’s middeck. Above the tunnel opening and on the starboard side of the bulkhead were the three AEMs, each neatly fitted into a standard-dimension stowage locker.

  The four sides and bottom of each AEM were constructed from aluminum. Two-thirds of the top panel consisted of a clear Lexan window to facilitate daily visual health checks of the specimen. The modules measured 17 inches wide, 20 inches deep, and just less than 10 inches in height.

  The rats had been brought aboard Columbia well before liftoff at about T-minus-31 hours. Each AEM was placed in its assigned SpaceHab stowage locker by a closeout team member at the launch pad. Before liftoff, the rats milled about their cages in normal gravity, with a seemingly unending banquet of food and water.