Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  “I’m sure I don’t have to spend any time this morning explaining the scale of the mess we’re in,” Atherton began in a solemn tone, his back still to the group. “I know the news is fresh, but I trust by now you’ve all seen the EVA video of the wing damage, listened to the president’s speech, and had time to think over the wide-sweeping ramifications of this disaster.”

  Atherton turned away from the window and walked to his chair at the far end of the conference table. He sat back slowly into the high-back chair and uttered a troubled, audible sigh. Then he leaned forward, perching his elbows on the table’s edge. He lowered his face into his hands, paused to savor a deep breath and continued his monologue.

  “I’m going to refer to it as a disaster, this mess with Columbia, because even though the Tiger Team has done an incredible job devising a rescue plan, I’m troubled by the countless number of dominoes that will have to be lined up just right for this thing to go, for the team’s plan to succeed. You’ve all been in this business long enough to know the plan’s a real long shot. Successfully rescuing the crew of Columbia with Atlantis is a real long shot.

  “Until the centers have had time to review the rescue timeline, until we have clearer definitions of what will be cut from Atlantis’s processing schedule, I want you all thinking along the lines of a disaster and damage control.

  “Before I get input from the various offices here today, I’d like to set the stage for what we’re up against. First, the liberal media is already falling all over itself. Stories are already hinting at how maybe this agency may have covered up the potential for this very thing to happen—for a foam debris strike to cripple an orbiter and place the crew’s lives in jeopardy.”

  Atherton stood up from his chair and began to circle the seven seated at the conference table. Another huge sigh. “You know, if you put yourself on the outside for just a minute, it’s not hard to see why the public might wonder about the foam strike history—after all, it was just three months ago, on STS-112, when we experienced our sixth incident of foam loss from the bi-pod area. Trust me when I say that as an agency, we’re going to look long and hard at why the shuttle fleet wasn’t grounded right then and there, why sufficient policing of our own agency didn’t occur, why it was that we didn’t stand on the brake pedal with both feet, and how we could’ve let even one more shuttle and crew go into space.

  “Secondly, there are those who think the space program is a huge waste of money—you’ve met them, you’ve taken questions from them, you know who I’m talking about. They’ve argued that it’s nice the shuttle can launch like a rocket and land like an airplane. ‘But what is it going to do?’ they ask. ‘It costs so much,’ they complain. So we came up with the idea of building the International Space Station, you know, to give the shuttle a purpose—but of course they have complaints about that, too. It seems the critics of the space program see only the downside; they see the costs, but never the benefits.

  “Thirdly, next year is a reelection year. I’ve already received calls from various White House staff reminding me of the need to proceed with caution, to handle the rescue attempt carefully. Their words were presented to me, well, let’s say they weren’t in the form of a directive—let’s just call it a suggestion. They wanted me to understand how the success or failure of the rescue mission could impact the president’s chances for reelection.”

  Atherton fell back into his seat, defeated. “I could go on all day about the various angles of attack we’re facing, but I want to hear from the various departments. I want to know your thoughts about our situation. We’ll start with public affairs, then external relations, and finally we’ll hear from education. So, Tim, we’ll start with you.”

  Tim Stevens looked up at Atherton, somewhat surprised. He had expected external relations to be called first; nonetheless, it did not present a problem for him because he was ready. From his briefcase he pulled out a folder containing seven copies of his two-page plan. He stood and passed them around the table, and drew looks from nearly everyone seated. To Stevens, they all seemed stunned—not by anything he had done, but by the predicament NASA was in. Stevens was about to turn things around.

  “I want you all to have an open mind about what I’m about to present to you. I know it’s different than what we usually do when we have a publicity problem. Hopefully, by the time I’m done, you will see that this predicament, this rescue mission, or disaster,” Stevens said, gesturing to Atherton, “whatever we call it, is radically different from anything we’ve faced as an agency.”

  Atherton watched Stevens carefully, well aware that he had hired Stevens against the urging of several of his advisors. “He’s not NASA pedigree.” “He has no history with the organization.” “There are a lot of people within the organization who would be a great public affairs director,” they’d argued.

  Atherton had conceded to all their points regarding Stevens and his work history being nearly entirely in consumer electronics marketing rather than aerospace. But on Atherton’s first meeting, Stevens had displayed a certain energy that distinguished him from the NASA cloth. He was different than those who had worked their way up and had demonstrated loyalty to the organization, and who knew all about the organization’s history. Atherton thought it might be easier to get out-of-the-box thinking from someone who was actually outside the box.

  “He’ll learn as he goes,” Atherton had assured his advisors, knowing full well that Stevens was younger than usual for the position and had significantly less aerospace experience than those before him. “Besides, he’s in marketing. He won’t be building rockets or Mars rovers. I’m confident his different perspective can freshen us up. In trying to understand various processes, he’s likely to ask us questions that will make us examine why we do things the way we do.”

  As Atherton listened to Stevens now, the way he was treating the “disaster” as a problem in need of a solution, he knew he had made the right decision.

  “I was up most of the night preparing this, so if there are any glaring errors or omissions, please forgive me,” Stevens said as he opened up his PowerPoint version of the document they were holding.

  “Historically, we’ve taken a defensive position whenever we’ve gotten into trouble,” Stevens said, after cueing the introduction slide of his presentation. “When I say ‘we’ve’ I’m of course referring to NASA as an organization, and not necessarily to those seated here. Looking back over the years, I suppose one could argue that the defensive stance has worked reasonably well. But today I’m proposing we try a different approach.” Stevens paused for effect. “What if we were to take this disaster and turn it around so that it worked in our favor?” Atherton nodded his head and sat straighter in his chair, his posture encouraging. He did not know where Stevens was heading, but he liked the sound of the presentation so far.

  “At this point we don’t know what’s going to happen with Columbia, frankly, and, whether or not we will be able to rescue the crew. Either way, rescue or not, we’ll be forced into a Shuttle Program stand-down while the foam problem is fixed. There will be no way around that, but of course I think we all agree it’s something that must be done. What we do have direct control of, however, is what we’ll do after the stand-down—that is, what we as an organization will do in the future. Will it be enough for us to just go on building the International Space Station with no other goal, or purpose, or vision? I say we can work this disaster to our advantage. What if instead of taking a defensive stance—where we give the media and public only minimalistic updates on how the crew of Columbia is coping with the wait for Atlantis, where reporters stand on the outside of the orbiter processing facility and speculate on the progress of Atlantis’s preparation for launch—we let America see the secretive depths of NASA like never before? What if we forestall the media’s desire to sling mud by offering unprecedented access to launch-vehicle processing, astronaut-training facilities and the launch complex?”

  Atherton and everyone else seated
at the conference table wore an expression that to Stevens looked like relief. They appeared relieved that maybe Stevens had found a way to handle the biggest mess the agency had ever seen. With barely a pause to let the group consider what he’d revealed of his plan, Stevens continued with the details.

  “We’re gonna have what, 20 to 25 days of launch preparation? That’s an eternity for the media and the American people. That’s 20 to 25 days of programming content that we can control to our advantage. It’s a chance to teach the American people what we think they don’t know about NASA.

  “A typical news story peaks by about the fifth day of coverage, as viewers begin to tire of countless video replays—the family stranded on a roof as flood waters rise and helicopters circle. It’s dramatic and captivating at first, but soon the TV anchors run out of new ways to analyze the situation, interest fades, and the story is lost.

  “This situation with Columbia is significantly different. I mean, here we are six days into the story, and we’re just getting started. No one knows for certain what the fate of the astronauts will be, we all have to wait—and that’s what makes this story so compelling. When the president of the United States says the seven-person crew won’t survive unless we go get them, well, that’s pretty powerful. So now the nation, the world for that matter, watches and waits. I’m saying we’re facing an incredible opportunity to direct what happens during the next 20 to 25 days. We can take the swelling of public interest, America’s yearning to have something to believe in a post-9/11 world. The public is hungry for information, and we can use the Internet to feed it like never before.

  “By the time Atlantis launches, the American people will know more about NASA and what it’s like to be an astronaut than they could ever have dreamed. They’ll have a solid understanding of the training for a mission, the simulators used, the training facilities, the T-38 training jets and so on. Kids will be pining for space camp.”

  Matthew Gaines from external affairs had been nodding along with Stevens, getting the concept from the beginning. “We can use an Internet-based lottery system,” Gaines said, interrupting. He looked to the others at the table, then to Stevens, who nodded for him to continue. “Ah, we can offer the public access to the training pool, the OPF, and the VAB—you know, let ’em try on spacesuits. Instead of having some reporter tell the American people what thermostabilized cheese tortellini tastes like, we’ll draw names of a dozen or so Americans and have them come to KSC and give them their own sample.”

  “Exactly,” Stevens said, smiling. “And if we successfully rescue the crew—God let’s hope we can do that—I think you’ll find a very receptive public when it comes to selling the next NASA dream. And if the crew is lost, Americans will have had time to better understand NASA and their space program. They will have had time to think about what goals they would like to see accomplished. Either way, Americans will demand that a clear and ambitious direction be set forth.”

  Chapter 27

  Columbia Flight Day 7

  Wednesday, Jan. 22, 2003

  “CHOCOLATE CHOCOLATE CHIP… Banana nut… Harvest bran,” Stangley muttered, rummaging through the muffin basket at his hotel’s breakfast bar. “Wild blueberry,” he said, louder than he intended, after finding his favorite Otis Spunkmeyer treat. He grabbed a banana and a large coffee, and then headed out to the parking lot.

  Stangley left Cocoa Beach at 7:15 A.M., heading east on the A1A with new focus and a new assignment. Today, he was to give his first report on Atlantis from Kennedy Space Center’s orbiter processing facility (OPF).

  Thankfully, his career experience and seniority made him the right guy for the OPF assignment. Many of his colleagues had already been assigned to cover the families of Columbia’s astronauts. He’d heard that soon after the president’s speech on Monday night, news vans had begun arriving at the homes of Columbia’s astronauts, where the news photographers attempted to capture images of astronauts’ spouses and children. They hadn’t cared before, but now suddenly the whole world wanted to know who these people were. Security had been provided for the astronauts’ families, but bold reporters and their crews, equipped with long-lensed cameras, closed in to record any and all of their activities—while staying on public property of course.

  Stangley gripped the steering wheel in the nine-three position and squeezed. As the leather-wrapped wheel yielded to his grip, he realized how strong he felt today: unusually strong. He felt fluid, quick in his movements, and his mind was clear and ready for work. As he reveled a moment or two in his current state, he suddenly realized what had changed in him—he realized why he was feeling this way.

  It was Claire.

  She was still the only woman he had ever loved; that had not changed. He still missed her deeply; that had not changed, either. But what was different, what was changing, was something he had initially feared, something up until now he had hated the world for asking him to do, something he swore he would never do: He was moving on.

  His soul was now showing the telltale signs of rehabilitation. It was not just some sleight-of-hand or trickery, but real magic—the same magic the body uses to heal all its wounds.

  After nine long months, Stangley finally observed physical signs of healing throughout his body. It was in his gait, his posture and his attitude. But more important, really, was that his brain too had changed. He no longer felt smothered in grief—he was able to separate himself from it now.

  He felt relieved, happier and proud of himself that he was beginning to accept that Claire would never again be in the seat beside him, that the days of her riding shotgun in his life were over.

  Her essence was with him, though, fused to his soul, as if he had become a repository, a vessel, for all the good she had represented.

  “How can I simplify what NASA is trying to accomplish? I need to somehow simplify the rescue mission,” Stangley said out loud as he turned left from A1A onto SR 507, still en route to the Kennedy Space Center. He often found himself talking aloud in his car; it was the best way he knew of to test how something would sound. He did it with his ideas for newspaper articles and in preparation for his live shots; he was always trying to distill from a topic its basic elements. Making science and space topics easy to understand was his trademark.

  “The whole process of getting Atlantis to the pad can be divided into three phases,” Stangley said, while knee-steering and using both hands and his teeth to open the plastic muffin wrapper.

  “We’re currently in the first phase, with Atlantis in the OPF finishing payload and systems processing; this is getting the plane itself ready to fly. Once processing is complete, she’ll be rolled over to the vehicle assembly building (VAB) for phase two, where Atlantis will be mated with the external fuel tank and solid rocket boosters. Phase three will involve rolling the stack—or the orbiter, external fuel tank, and solid rocket boosters—out to the launch pad for final testing and preparation before the launch.”

  He knew he had about 25 days until the launch, which in turn meant he would need 25 days of content.

  “What the heck are we going to talk about for 25 days?” Stangley asked himself, letting muffin crumbs fly as he spoke.

  Chapter 28

  JULIE POLLARD FELT the growing weight of the rescue mission. Pressure on her mounted with each meeting that seemed to create more questions than it answered and each phone call from a department head terrified to take the next step without consulting her first. Each hour seemed to bring a new problem, a new challenge.

  But she never flinched, never veered off course.

  With all the responsibility that had fallen on her, one might have expected her to falter, expected her legs to buckle or that she would stagger and shudder like a pack burro adjusting to the weight of added parcels.

  But she didn’t; it just wasn’t her style.

  Pollard had completed her five-minute warm-up jog and had stopped on a patch of grass to perform her stretches. She became aware of yesterday’s perfume�
�subtle, powdery, floral—which had been reactivated by the glistening rivulets at her throat. It’s a super-efficient cooling system, great for running, she thought, but in the desert I’d be dead in an hour.

  She took off running, reaching her cruising speed by her tenth step. Nothing hurt, nothing felt tight—each step progressing without opposition, spring-loaded propulsion, effortless.

  All systems were go!

  Running was her lifesaver. She knew that. Since the moment Columbia’s wing damage had been confirmed, the hours at work had grown considerably longer, the demands greater.

  Pollard had switched to triage mode and had jettisoned everything in her life that took time and focus away from her work—but she had always allowed enough time for her daily run. She knew it went against the work culture at NASA, knew the expectation was that her life should be put on hold until after the rescue effort had ended. But running had become an integral part of her self-discipline, the cornerstone of her mental framework. Running fit so seamlessly into her routine that she suffered no feelings of drudgery from the exercise; it served a basic physiologic need.

  She just ran, and made no excuses or attempts to explain her behavior to anyone.

  “Flight day seven,” she spoke aloud, as if voice-commanding some digital file system to open where she had left off. It was how she got her mind’s attention—made it focus its powers on a single subject. She had been carefully watching the rescue timeline from both ends—how many days had elapsed and how many were left. The canisters will be empty in twenty-three-and-a-half days, she thought. Every morning during her run, she updated the critical data, checked the status of the rescue plan.

  Watch the timeline.

  The thought sent a cascading tingle down her spine. But the sensation did not give stall to her flight; rather, it reinforced the notion that she was a doer and not a watcher. Doers take those feelings and run with them, she reminded herself.