Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  “… In the history of NASA’s manned spaceflight program, there has never been a problem finding candidates willing to sit atop a multimillion-pound rocket and go wherever it was going. And now with the pending rescue mission, astronauts are no doubt wondering whether they’ll be chosen for this historic mission.

  “According to NASA’s latest press release, four astronauts will be chosen for this mission. Atlantis will need a commander, a pilot and two EVA specialists—remember the EVA astronauts are the space walk experts. We are told that final astronaut selection will be completed sometime today, and that their names will be announced tomorrow. As soon as we know their identities we’ll get that information to you…”

  “…CNN’s political correspondent Jerry Campbell is standing by now with a report from Washington, D.C. Jerry?”

  “Thanks, Stephanie. Well, as you know there has been a growing buzz here in Washington in relation to the rescue mission. A rescue mission of an international crew couldn’t be better timed as the president continues to meet with the United Nations, petitioning for support on the war with Iraq.

  “And then, of course, campaigning for reelection is imminent. The rescue mission is likely to offer many photo-ops for the president. In the coming days, he is expected to address the ground crews working on Atlantis, give them praise, and treat them like soldiers serving their country in a time of war. He’ll also meet with the four Atlantis astronauts. Many are speculating they’ll be invited for a White House dinner before their historic rescue mission.

  “Many here feel that a successful rescue mission will be quite helpful for the president’s reelection campaign. In just the past two days since he gave his rescue mission speech, we’ve seen his approval numbers climb 15 points.

  “NASA’s space achievements have always had a way with people around the world. This rescue mission will be followed closely around the globe, especially with an Israeli and an Indian astronaut aboard Columbia. It will be interesting to see how these situations unfold in the coming weeks. Live from Washington, I’m Jerry Campbell. Stephanie?”

  “Thanks for your report, Jerry. This is really turning out to be an interesting story.”

  “You’re right, Stephanie. The story is much bigger than just NASA’s rescue effort. I think we’re just beginning to see how a successful rescue will impact not only this country, but the world as a whole.”

  “I’m getting the sense, Jerry, from all the reports coming in now, that America seems to be embracing this rescue mission. It’s as if the rescue is inspiring renewed patriotism and pride in this post-9/11 world. We thank you, Jerry, for that report.

  “Stay tuned to CNN for continuing coverage of NASA’s historic rescue mission… we turn now to our national weather report. Joining us for that is…”

  Chapter 32

  Columbia Flight Day 7

  Wednesday, Jan. 22, 2003

  DANA AVERY WAS SPRINKLING grated parmesan cheese on her daughter Samantha’s spaghetti when her call came in. She had been on edge all day, anticipating this call, cocked like a mousetrap in the dark.

  Normally, the family rule was no phone calls during dinner. It was her husband’s rule, but with all that was going on at NASA, that rule simply wasn’t going to apply tonight. She looked at her husband as she started to move toward the phone. He reassured her with a smile. He understood what this assignment would mean to her and her career as an astronaut.

  NASA managers, along with Senca’s Tiger Team, had determined that the optimal crew count for the rescue mission was four astronauts: a commander, pilot, and two mission specialists. It was the minimum number of astronauts required to effectively and safely complete the rescue. Alternates for the four astronaut positions would be assigned and they would train in unison with the primary four.

  Astronaut selection would be based on experience. Most important would be an astronaut’s proven ability to quickly adapt to microgravity, as well as proficiency in the simulators. The typical 40 to 50 weeks spent on mission-specific training would be reduced to just two weeks. Seven commanders, seven pilots, and nine EVA astronauts met NASA’s mission criteria for the rescue mission.

  Tonight, only eight astronauts would get a phone call—although all 23 would be waiting.

  Avery walked from the dinner table over to the wall-mounted phone at the sink. When she saw the number in the caller-ID window, her stomach dropped. She turned towards the kitchen table and said, “Hey guys, I think this is it!”

  “Well, get it, Mommy,” 5-year-old Samantha instructed, as Avery stood waiting for one more ring. “Get the phone!”

  She finally snatched up the phone and said, “Avery here.”

  “Dana, this is Greg Thomassan…”

  Avery didn’t wait for him to finish.

  “Yes, Greg, I recognize your voice, what’s the word?”

  “I’m calling to offer you a ride on Atlantis, for STS-300.”

  Avery hesitated, “Ah, STS-300, Greg? What’s…”

  “Oh, sorry, we just got the mission designation, and STS-300 is the rescue mission.”

  “Yeah, I’m in, then.”

  Thomassan paused. “Dana, we’d like you to serve as the commander.”

  “It would be an honor,” Avery said, standing in front of her husband and daughter with her fist clenched and an ear-to-ear smile.

  “The official mission training for STS-300 will start tomorrow. But you know I’m a man of tradition, so I thought we could meet briefly, along with the rest of your crew, for a celebratory drink at the Outpost Tavern around nine tonight.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there.”

  “Good, then, Dana. Glad to have you aboard. See you in a couple of hours.”

  Chapter 33

  WHEN HIS CALL CAME, Edward Rivas was singing badly into the cloudless Houston night, top down on his two-month-old Mustang GT, “Love Shack” blasting from the speakers. Worried he might miss NASA’s call, he had placed his cell phone between his legs with it set to vibrate. This was Rivas’s first convertible, and he wanted his ears filled with the roar of the engine and his music. He was startled by the first ring—vibration, actually—and in looking down for his phone he swerved clear out of his lane before correcting. When he saw the caller ID, he cut the stereo, checked his rearview mirror for traffic, then made a radical pullover maneuver to the shoulder. He fumbled the phone to his ear.

  “This is Ed.”

  “Hello?” the voice on the other end questioned.

  He heard only highway white noise followed by peaks of even more white noise. The caller’s hesitation made Ed think someone had reached him by mistake. His heart sank with the thought it might be a false alarm.

  “Ed?”

  “Yeah, this is…”

  “Where the heck are…?”

  “Ed Rivas here.”

  The two battled back and forth through the sketchy cell phone reception.

  “Ed, Greg Thomassan here. Sounds like you’re in a tunnel.”

  “Oh sorry, I’m on five-twenty-eight, just west of the seventy-five.”

  “You’re still living down in Friendswood, right?”

  “Yep, on my way home right now as a matter of fact.”

  Rivas nervously traced a finger over the raised horse emblem on the center of the steering wheel. The small talk was killing him. Get to it, man! He checked the dashboard clock. It was just after seven in the evening, so he figured this to be an early call. Rivas knew the four primary astronauts got their calls first, and then the four backups. Same for every mission.

  “I was calling to see if you’d be in town around the end of this month. Avery is going to need a pilot.”

  “Flipper is going to be the commander?”

  And then Rivas realized he was only NASA’s second call—the second call for astronaut selection on the only rescue mission in the history of manned spaceflight. Adrenaline poured through him like flood waters down a storm drain. He tried to speak, but couldn’t make his muscles work in synergy
.

  “Rivas, you still there?” Thomassan asked above the rhythmic passing of cars in the background.

  “Ah, yes, I’m here,” was all he could manage.

  “So will you be in town or…”

  “Hell, yes, I’ll be here, yes I want to be the pilot!” he finally exclaimed.

  “Well, good. Welcome aboard STS-300, then. The crew will be meeting tonight at nine, at the usual spot.”

  “No problem, Greg, I’ll be there.”

  “See you then.”

  Rivas closed his phone and tipped his head back to look up at the sky, and then let out a howl.

  “Hang tight, guys, we’re comin’ to get you,” he said, barely getting the last words out before he choked up with emotion.

  He hoped his friends on Columbia could hear him.

  He lowered his gaze and found the waning gibbous moon.

  Rivas always looked for the moon in the night sky. He did it out of respect, as a humble acknowledgment of how small he was in this great universe.

  The magnitude of the call began to take hold, and the tears of joy, of worry, of excitement, of so many emotions, came.

  Rivas wiped his eyes in an attempt to focus, then watched his rearview mirror for traffic behind him to clear. He had first gear selected and the clutch pedal buried to the floor. When his opening in the traffic finally came, he revved the engine to three-quarters throttle, dumped the clutch, then stood on the gas. He hollered once more as smoke billowed from both rear wheel wells. He let off the throttle slightly and the tires began to bite, propelling him forward, but not before leaving about 5,000 miles’ worth of rubber on the shoulder.

  Chapter 34

  The Outpost Tavern

  NASA Parkway at Egret Bay

  Webster, Texas

  NASA CHIEF ASTRONAUT Greg Thomassan sat alone in a booth for six, carefully collecting his thoughts while his index finger nudged a lemon slice back and forth in his schooner of Hefeweizen.

  He could not say how many times he’d been to this same place, same booth even. But, regardless of how many times he had welcomed a new group of astronauts, hosted the customary congratulatory meeting for a new shuttle crew, he knew this one was certain to be different.

  Never before had he felt compelled to talk a newly selected crew out of their mission.

  With all his experience, Thomassan felt ill-prepared somehow, felt that everything was being rushed. He wished he had more time to better explain to the crew of STS-300 what they were agreeing to. He was certain they were ignoring the risks, that they had given no thought at all to the potential outcomes of the mission. He wondered if their calling to fly had been packaged with a set of jumpers that allowed critical circuits in their brains to be bypassed. Maybe, he thought, an important row of synapses deep within their genetic code had been set to zero. Something was keeping the reasoning centers of their brains from firing.

  Thomassan smiled as he thought about two of the STS-300 crew in particular: Commander Avery and Pilot Rivas, both former aircraft-carrier pilots. Anyone crazy enough to fly a “tail hook,” Thomassan thought, had obviously skipped the chapters in the flight manual that addressed risks. These two had probably skipped right to the chapter entitled: “What to Do When You’re Five Minutes Out on Final Approach to the Carrier.”

  Thomassan knew Avery was the right choice for commander. She had commanded two previous missions and was ready to go. It just so happened Avery was female, which in Thomassan’s mind made absolutely no difference at all; but he had heard the decision gave NASA’s public affairs office yet another marketing tool. A woman heading up the rescue mission. Perfect.

  Thomassan was equally certain of Edward Rivas. Rivas and Avery had worked together before and had proven to be a good team. Their combined experience, spirit and sheer talent had figured heavily in their selection for this mission. Their drive for glory would help get NASA’s mission accomplished.

  But the order was, in fact, quite tall. Assuming Atlantis could be readied as outlined in the rescue timeline, there were still a million things that could go wrong. Everything was vulnerable; it could be anything from a main engine to a $50 sensor that told them: Sorry, you won’t be flying.

  NASA also was going to need a commander and a pilot who were very proficient in close-quarter manual docking and flying techniques. The rendezvous procedures called for Atlantis to be flown manually within tens of feet of Columbia’s open payload bay for eight to nine hours. That was the amount of time Senca’s Tiger Team estimated it would take to transfer the crew of Columbia over to Atlantis. Thomassan knew that if anybody could do it, Avery and Rivas could.

  Thomassan did not look up when he heard the burst of noise coming through the front door of the tavern, but he did smile, knowing they had arrived.

  Everything happened on cue. The high fives, the big voices, the chants from the astronaut groupies, the pats on the back, and the shouts from several tables, “Go Atlantis” and “Go get ’em guys.” He had seen and heard it countless times before.

  When Thomassan finally looked their way, he saw the four of them walking in together. In just a glance he read their faces. They were alive with pride and ready to go.

  Thomassan had a keen sense of character, a trait that had helped him tremendously with astronaut selection and mission assignments. He watched his one-woman, three-man rescue crew slowly snake their way toward his table. Astronauts are a funny bunch, he thought. When you talk to them, you can’t help but notice the way they radiate living. It’s in their speech, their walk, it is written on their faces. They flat out love their work. It’s never been about the money.

  Thomassan stood to greet his rescue crew.

  “Hey, Rivas,” Thomassan said, reaching out to shake his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks again, Greg, glad to be here.”

  “Mullen, welcome,” Thomassan said warmly, stepping out of the way so the astronauts could start sliding in around the U-shaped booth.

  Terry Mullen reached out to shake Thomassan’s hand. “Thanks for the look, Greg.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  “Garrett. Any trouble finding the place?” Thomassan joked, referring to the three years that had passed since Garrett’s last mission.

  “Found it just fine, Greg, thanks,” Garrett said, smiling at the crack. He released his handshake and moved closer to the booth. He noticed his best friend Mullen sliding into the booth, and doing everything he could not to touch the table or even the seating surfaces. It had nothing to do with the place or this particular booth. It was Mullen. He had a cleanliness compulsion that he was usually able to conceal in public, but Garrett guessed that launch anxiety had already set in, loosening the fasteners that held Mullen’s neuroses in check. Garrett slid in next to Mullen. “Cool it,” he said quietly to Mullen.

  “The table’s gross, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Just cool it,” Garrett repeated in a low tone. “You don’t want people thinkin’ you’re some kind of wack-job.” The two of them looked up as Avery arrived at the booth.

  “Avery, thanks for accepting the assignment,” Thomassan said, almost sheepishly, as if meeting her for the first time and being struck by her confidence, smile, and dare he think it, her beauty. Avery stared at Thomassan as he shook her hand, her intense, green eyes burned into him. In that brief moment, Thomassan imagined her in some other setting, away from the amped-up persona she sustained to keep the boys in their place. He couldn’t keep from wondering about her softer side, one he sensed was present, a side she kept safely buried beneath countless layers of protection.

  Avery sat on the left end of the booth, directly across from Thomassan, who was seated at the booth’s right end. Next to Avery was Rivas, then Garrett and Mullen.

  “What can I get you to drink?” a waitress asked attentively once the astronauts were all seated.

  “How about four more of whatever he’s drinking,” Rivas said, pointing to Thomassan’s schooner of beer. T
he crew agreed. Rivas was the only one seated at the table who was single, and he ordered as if well practiced—like it hadn’t been more than a few days since he had been at a similar bar with other friends.

  “Four more Hefeweizens, be right back,” the waitress said.

  Then one after another the astronauts all expressed feeling as if they’d won the lottery. They were convinced that the rescue mission, with all its hype, would propel their careers in incredible ways, ways they couldn’t even comprehend yet.

  After the drinks arrived, the crew reminisced about previous missions they had shared, and talked about being selected for the rescue mission. Thomassan sat quietly, listening to the crew, painfully aware of why he really wanted to gather them tonight. It certainly wasn’t to congratulate them on having been selected for the rescue mission. He imagined himself 10 to 15 years younger and still a “practicing” astronaut. He wondered how he would have handled being chosen for such a high-profile mission, such a dangerous mission.

  “Godspeed!” Thomassan said, raising his schooner for a toast. The crew raised their schooners as well. “Godspeed!” they repeated.

  “We need to talk about a few things first,” Thomassan said, wrangling the crew’s attention, “that is, before we get to mission specifics and training schedules.”

  “Is this the part where you tell us that rockets are dangerous?” Mullen said as he wiped the table in front of him with a cocktail napkin. Nervous laughter from the crew ensued.