Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  Then suddenly, as Columbia took flight, their tiny legs collapsed like overloaded leaf springs. Each rat’s short tiny legs struggled to hold up their growing body weight—two-and-a-half times normal. Their bellies were plastered to the cage fronts. Then as Columbia began its planned roll program, turning upside down relative to Earth, the rats were held tight against the AEMs Lexan windows. This lasted about eight minutes, and then, almost as suddenly, the 13 male rats found themselves floating, swimming in air, weightless in their highly specialized cages.

  Before sliding the AEMs out from their stowage lockers, Jan first removed a Velcro-attached cover from the front of each AEM. The cover, made from Nomax fabric, served as a muffler from the noise of the four radial-blower fans at the front of each module.

  Next, she turned the safety-release latch on the first AEM, and the 55-pound module slid out easily with a single hand, right out to its stops. Through the window, she saw five male albino Fischer 344 Specific Pathogen-Free rats clambering for purchase, their front legs dog-paddling in desperate attempts at propulsion.

  Two incandescent bulbs, shielded from contact with the rats and their excrement, burned brightly in the AEM, providing the “light” in the 12-hour light/dark cycle. Ten tiny rubies squinted back at her as light from SpaceHab’s general lighting poured in through the Lexan window.

  At the center of the cage, a rat worked at getting a drink from one of the four Lixit valves attached to the water refill box. The water level was still good; Jan had added water herself earlier that morning—that is, before Mission Control first notified them about a possible debris strike. Rectangular food bars, formed from sterilized lab-formula rodent food, were attached to four vertically mounted plates inside the module. The rats had more than enough food for a 16-day mission. What about a 31-day mission?

  In a few minutes, it wouldn’t matter.

  The term “euthanize” was derived from the Greek term meaning “good death,” and Jan had every intention of giving the rats one. But the 13 rats could not be euthanized all at once. She would have to perform the procedure separately for each of the three AEMs.

  To get started, she first located stowage locker number three, which contained the CO2 storage assemblies. She pulled the quick release pin on the first assembly and removed it from the locker. The assembly consisted of a metal cylinder insulated with Nomax and pressurized with CO2 to 852 pounds. Attached to the end of the cylinder was a pressure-relief valve, a main valve and a quick-disconnect male pipe fitting. She connected one end of the umbilical hose to the CO2 assembly and the other end to the CO2 manifold assembly on the front of the AEM.

  Jan felt compelled to say something, but “Sorry, guys,” was all she could come up with. She slid the AEM back into its locker, then turned the valve handle, releasing the entire contents of the CO2 cylinder into the AEM. It took less than a minute to discharge the cylinder.

  Death by asphyxiation.

  Adult rats exposed to CO2 concentrations of 70 percent or more usually die in five minutes. Initially, the rats experience a nervous system depression that is combined with an anesthetic effect.

  Death soon follows.

  She disconnected the assembly from the AEM and stowed it back in the locker. Then she pulled the pin for the next CO2 assembly and repeated the procedure on the other two AEMs.

  Jan’s work was complete. She lowered herself into the tunnel partway, then turned back to look into SpaceHab. It was dark, quiet—and dead.

  It was then that the events of the past two days really sank in for her. At first, the ramifications of a hole in the wing had not registered. Well, yeah, there’s a hole in the wing, but you have a workaround for us, right?

  If all the NASA heroics and dedicated manpower were not successful—if Atlantis could not be launched, if the rescue attempt failed—she would suffer the same fate as the rats.

  By the morning of flight day 31, Columbia’s LiOH supply would be exhausted, all 69 canisters fully saturated.

  The cabin CO2 level would continue to climb with each exhaled breath until a lethal level brought the end.

  One by one.

  The rats in their cages, the astronauts now in theirs.

  Central nervous system depression combined with anesthesia.

  Death by asphyxiation.

  Just like the rats.

  Chapter 24

  “HELLO?” Stangley answered with a whisper, trying to be polite to those around him, walking stooped-over until he reached the end of his aisle.

  “John?” Claire asked after hearing only background sounds. Then she realized he was still in the press conference.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he said, louder, as he cleared the last row of seats.

  “John, I thought we could meet down at Lori Wilson Park for a picnic—the birds are out this time of year,” Claire offered in her caramel-smooth voice. It was an incredibly romantic place, their favorite place in Cocoa Beach, with an elevated boardwalk that wound down and through the hammock trees for more than a half-mile.

  Stangley waited patiently; with Claire there was always more.

  “I found some great cheeses and meats at the market.”

  He smiled, “Ah, yeah that all sounds great Claire, we’re just finishing up here. What time were you thinking?” Stangley asked standing at the back of KSC’s press room with all the other reporters who couldn’t let a phone call go unanswered.

  “Well,” Claire said, accenting all the right words, “if we meet by three, we can share a bottle of Richard Perry and have a light dinner, and we’ll still have time to catch a movie in town later tonight.”

  She had such a way with him; her timing always seemed right. Somehow, she could see into his soul, anticipate his needs and see what he was missing. The sound of her voice energized him, activated what must have been sleeping circuits. She caused these periodic surges in him as if he were a battery that had been placed on a quick-charger.

  He loved that she always called with plans, that she’d spent time thinking of them as a couple long before she mentioned a word to him. He loved the mental image of her out walking around downtown Cocoa Beach, shopping for their picnic, her oversized glove-soft leather bag slung from her shoulder, and the way she’d tilt her sunglasses down to peer into the various storefronts. Stangley had seen her do it so many times—selecting uncommon delicacies to keep it interesting, always finding ways to ramp up their relationship to new heights.

  Claire was focused on living, always had been, even before the hostile takeover had started.

  Stangley glanced at his watch, “Three will be fine.”

  “I can’t wait to see you,” Claire added.

  “Claire?”

  “Yes, John?”

  “This is why I love it when you come on these trips with me.”

  “Why is that, John?” Claire replied, knowing she had him.

  Stangley found himself fumbling. Twelve years of marriage, and still she could rouse him with just a few words—simple words that let him know her love.

  “You’re an incredible woman, Claire.”

  “Love you, too,” she said, and ended the call.

  “In a few minutes… actually any minute now, we expect to hear from the president…”

  Stangley thought he had heard a voice that sounded like Stephanie Lance from CNN. It sounded like a small fragment of reality, but the sound seemed to originate off in the distance.

  Then he resumed his favorite dream of Claire, as if he’d been whisked from reality, lured like an addict by his chosen poison.

  Stangley drove south from the Kennedy Space Center that day after attending a press conference for STS-81, a mission to dock Atlantis with the Russian Space Station Mir. It was January 1997, and the air was a perfect 71 degrees. He was back behind the wheel of the silver Buick Century rental car, 10 miles per hour over posted, windows down along highway A1A, music blasting, 22 minutes away from his beach park picnic with Claire.

  “He will be speaking tonig
ht from the Oval Office at the White House… our camera crews are in place—we will have live coverage for you…”

  That reporter’s voice again, the heavy anchor of reality. Something about the president. President’s speech. Live coverage. Did I leave the TV on? Stangley wondered.

  He fought desperately to stay with the dream.

  Cool, coarse sand under his bare feet, and as he approached, Claire’s smile, blazing like the first rays of an August morning sun. Place settings for two, four different cheeses, barbecued shrimp, grilled chicken strips wrapped in Mozzarella and glazed with a hint of basil mayonnaise, summer sausage sliced diagonally, wine splashing their palettes in notes of blackberries, currant fruit, and a hint of espresso…

  She was slipping away. His cinnamon-swirl blonde with the beautiful smile was slipping away. Stangley’s most treasured memory of her, overplayed as it was, was losing its fidelity.

  Stangley’s eyes opened. Supine on his hotel bed, back in Cocoa Beach, alone.

  “… He is expected to address not only the American people, but also the international community. He will also be reaching out to the people of India and Israel, in what has turned out to be an incredible story, really, of seven astronauts and their damaged spacecraft. We are told … all right I’m told that the president is ready…”

  Stangley sat up.

  “My fellow Americans, earlier today we learned the stunning news about our Space Shuttle Columbia and her crew. Just five days ago, Columbia blasted off from America’s spaceport at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. She carried with her an international crew, seven brave astronauts who voluntarily left Earth for a 16-day science mission. They were poised to gain new knowledge about life on Earth and life in space from their orbiting laboratory. But now we know the lives of these seven astronauts are in peril.

  “Approximately eighty-one seconds after Columbia lifted off from her launch pad, a large piece of insulating foam broke away from the shuttle’s external fuel tank and struck Columbia’s left wing.

  “Today, we learned that NASA engineers’ worst fears were confirmed by a spacewalk that involved two astronauts’ physical inspection of the wing. We now know Columbia’s wing is severely damaged.

  “She won’t fly again. Columbia is mortally damaged.

  “Columbia’s crew will not be coming back to Earth without dramatic intervention from NASA.

  “The seven lives of our international crew are in grave danger. We must go back into space and rescue them. It is their only hope; it is our single duty. And this great nation of America, which has been blessed with the resources to make space travel possible, will use all resources necessary, our neve-rending human spirit, and our full capacity to overcome challenges to save these seven great men and women.

  “Shortly after I was informed of Columbia’s situation, I contacted Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon and Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee of India. I assured them both that America would do everything in our power to bring their compatriots back home safely.

  “I have also been in contact with William Atherton, NASA’s administrator. I have assured him he will have the full support of the White House and Congress in obtaining whatever resources are needed to effect a rescue of Columbia’s crew…”

  Part II

  The Challenge

  Chapter 25

  Columbia Flight Day 6

  Tuesday, Jan. 21, 2003

  HOUSTON’S WILLIAM P. HOBBY AIRPORT bustled like it did on any given Tuesday. The central concourse was alive even at this hour, with newsstands, designer-apparel boutiques and pastry carts all ready for business, indifferent to the time of day, their lights and signage glaring into the eyes of weary travelers.

  He made a quick check of his watch; it was 5:10 in the morning. In the central lobby, the smell of barbecue was already in the air. Harlon’s BBQ was ramping up—this was “Tasty Tuesday,” after all. They’ll be standing in line for soul food, Ken Brown thought as he passed the restaurant. Smothered chops and steaks, melted butter on steaming cornbread—it sounded appetizing to him even this early.

  No, there was nothing different about this Tuesday as far as the airport was concerned. There were no large-scale changes to flight schedules, no staffing shortages, no incoming dignitaries to muck things up. It was just another weekday at the airport.

  Life moved on.

  Brown continued walking through the airport, until he reached the American Eagle desk for gate C52. Under his left arm, clad in his navy sport coat, the New York Times beckoned with a lead story even a NASA veteran like Brown had never seen:

  “COLUMBIA’S CREW IN PERIL

  NASA, President, confirm rescue mission only option for crew survival.”

  He handed his ticket to the agent and waited impatiently for his seat assignment. The New York Times article pulled on his coat sleeve, demanding his attention like an overtired 5-year-old child.

  “Ah, okay, I show a single seat,” the ticketing agent said, “row nine seat A. Are you familiar with the ER4 aircraft?”

  “Yes I am, A9 will be fine,” Brown said, remembering the ER4’s three seats per row, one-two configuration, which would give him a window on his left and an aisle on his right—perfect isolation.

  While the agent typed some more and waited for the boarding pass to print, Brown thought about Stangley’s phone call last night.

  “I made the front page, above the fold even,” Stangley had told Brown with youthful enthusiasm. “It’s the best placement of my career!” Brown smiled, remembering the conversation.

  “Here are your boarding passes, Mr. Brown. I’ve booked you all the way through to Orlando.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brown searched for a seat in the lobby and found two empty seats in the second row. He sat down and placed his briefcase on the empty seat next to him. Then he began reading his newspaper, carefully consuming every terrible word.

  The New York Times

  Jan. 21, 2003

  NASA, President Confirm Rescue Only Option For

  Crew Survival

  By John Stangley

  HOUSTON, Texas.

  The president of the United States, along with a panel of experts from NASA, confirmed yesterday that Space Shuttle Columbia’s international crew of seven astronauts will be unable to return to Earth aboard their damaged orbiter, and that their only chance of survival is for NASA to launch another shuttle to rescue them.

  Yesterday’s announcement came after photo/video engineers at NASA had spent the past several days reviewing launch films and satellite imaging in an attempt to better understand the severity of Columbia’s wing damage, which is believed to have occurred during last Thursday morning’s launch.

  The actual severity of the damage became alarmingly clear yesterday morning, when Columbia’s astronauts were called on by Mission Control in Houston to perform an unplanned spacewalk and visually inspect Columbia’s left wing. The inspection revealed a hole along the wing’s leading edge measuring 18 inches wide, 12 inches high, and 7 inches deep.

  The location of the damage was particularly concerning to NASA engineers, since the hole caused a complete breach of Columbia’s protective heat shield system—a system necessary for the orbiter spacecraft and its crew to survive the deadly heat of atmospheric reentry.

  “The feeling in the room was like silent terror, that’s all I remember,” said Gerald Conner, a spokesperson for NASA, describing the reaction at Mission Control as engineers there watched for the first time video taken by the astronauts during their wing-inspection spacewalk.

  “We’ve never had to deal with this type of problem in the past,” Conner told reporters. “There will be little margin for error as we execute our rescue plan—as we rush Atlantis to the launch pad. Every step of the process, from the orbiter processing all the way out to the launch pad, will essentially need to be flawless. There’s just a huge amount of uncertainty and countless variables with something as complex as the Space shuttle.”
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br />   During NASA’s late-afternoon press conference yesterday, engineers outlined their ambitious plan to send Orbiter Atlantis up to rendezvous with Columbia to rescue the marooned crew. Many questions were raised by reporters as to other options for Columbia that could possibly extend the time available for rescue.

  But Columbia’s Flight Director Allan Warner made it clear that rescue is NASA’s only option. “We can’t use the International Space Station as a safe haven,” Warner said. “Columbia would need about three times the fuel they have now to reach the Space Station, which is orbiting roughly 60 miles above them—they simply can’t get there.” Warner also said that although the European Space Agency’s Ariane rocket could reach Columbia from its French Guiana launch site, it wouldn’t be possible to build the necessary hardware and supply module, and write the necessary software, to successfully rendezvous with Columbia, all within the roughly 25-day time frame.

  NASA officials were quick to point out that a rescue mission like this has never been attempted, and that the ground crews processing Atlantis will be following a very rushed processing schedule.

  “Every last detail will have to be right the first time,” Warner commented. “There won’t be time for do-overs. If we can’t get Atlantis launched during one of the three windows, the crew of Columbia will perish in space; it’s that serious.”

  The first launch window for Atlantis opens Feb. 9 at 11:09 P.M., which will be Columbia’s twenty-fifth day in space.

  Chapter 26

  NASA Headquarters

  300 E Street S.W.

  Washington, D.C.

  NASA ADMINISTRATOR WILLIAM ATHERTON stood quietly at the windows of the executive boardroom. His arms were crossed behind his back, but he was not at ease. He waited for the various administrative heads of the Strategic Communications offices to take their places at the table, and listened for the sound of the boardroom door closing.