Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  “Well, actually you’re not too far off the mark, Mullen,” Thomassan said, showing a more serious face. “I’ve met with you all in this very place for previous missions, and those meetings focused mainly on mission specifics. But this rescue mission, well, it’s something none of us has any experience with. Atlantis could end up just like Columbia, damaged wing and all. We’ll be launching to the same orbital inclination as Columbia, so we still won’t have the ISS as a safe haven if something goes wrong during launch.”

  “But that’s when we would launch Discovery though, right?” Rivas said, trying to lighten the moment. But Thomassan ignored the comment and continued.

  “Your names have been released to the media. The world now knows which astronauts will comprise the rescue crew. But I want you to know, you still have an out. A simple phone call by me to the PAO gets you out. They can use any excuse you like—illness, previous commitments, whatever. Now, I know what you must be feeling; I’ve flown on the shuttle four times myself, as commander on my last two missions. You’re astronauts, so naturally your first reaction is, ‘Of course I want to do this, of course I want the rescue mission.’ But you must think about who you will leave behind in a worst-case scenario.”

  What if something happens to me? Avery had given plenty of attention, possibly too much. Ever since the prospect of a rescue mission had surfaced, she’d been tormented by an inextinguishable battle of sentiments. Should she save her friends by commanding a once-in-a-lifetime rescue mission—a veritable astronaut’s dream—or listen to the maternal instincts that scolded her for not automatically placing foremost her kindergarten-aged daughter. Every hour that passed saw one course slightly outweighing the other, and then the teeter-totter would shift and she’d start deliberating all over again.

  “Even though we just got word tonight on who was going flying,” Avery began first, “the crew of Columbia has been on my mind since they launched seven days ago. I’ve been following one-oh-seven closely—more so, of course, since the wing damage was discovered.” Avery paused, pushed her schooner away, then looked up and away from the table, hoping her tears could drain in time. “Those are my friends up there,” she said finally, then quickly brought the schooner to her mouth to hide. She needed an emotional time-out, another moment to review her options. Then suddenly, as if a gavel had been struck inside her head, her purpose became clear, her decision final. She lowered her drink and looked at her crew, and then back at Thomassan, “I feel like I’ve been called for this mission. I’ve been wondering these past few days if all my training up till now has been for this, the rescue.”

  “I’ve never been in doubt about any of you, or your skills. I just want you all to think about what you’re agreeing to,” Thomassan said.

  “Greg,” Avery said. “I feel a duty to help them in any way I can. Flying them home safely is the best way I can think of to help. I’m in,” she said, turning to Rivas.

  “I’m in, too,” Rivas said, without hesitation. “Let’s go get ‘em. We just need a couple weeks of training, then you can light that sucker!” Rivas looked at Garrett.

  “Hell, I’ve been at risk since I joined the Air Force,” Garrett exclaimed. “When I became an astronaut, my flirtations with risk increased. I guess I don’t see how this rescue mission presents more risk than usual. If I think about any of it too long, I’ll lose my nerve. During any shuttle launch, the closest spectator is more than a mile away, while we lie on our backs strapped in like helpless lab monkeys. Hell, if I spent any time thinking about all the idiots out on the highway, I’d probably stop driving. It’s not like any of us knows what part or system of the shuttle is going to fail next. So let’s get on with it. I’m in, too.”

  All eyes turned to Mullen.

  “Well, ditto to all that,” Mullen said. “If rescue is their only option, then flying is our only option. It’s what we gotta do.” Garrett watched Mullen as he wiped the table for the fourth time. “It’s a high-profile mission, and we’ll have a rushed schedule and all—but man, if we pull it off, when we pull it off, well, that’ll really be somethin’. Count me in!”

  Thomassan looked off across the restaurant, then down at his nearly empty schooner. There was nothing he could say that would change their minds. “I guess you’re all in, then.” He raised his glass, glanced around at the semicircle of talent in front of him and said, “To the crew of STS-300, Godspeed!”

  “Cheers!”

  Chapter 35

  Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory Locker Room

  Columbia Flight Day 8

  Thursday, Jan. 23, 2003

  ASTRONAUT SHANE GARRETT was about to close the staff entrance door to NASA’s Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory (NBL), when, in a brisk visual flash, he caught a glimpse of his crewmate Terry Mullen, who was just now passing through the gauntlet of astronaut paparazzi. Garrett paused in the doorway smiling, because without even looking he could picture the look on Mullen’s face. It would be the same expression he’d seen him wear for every astronaut meet and greet: anxious and twitchy poorly disguised beneath a press-ready smile.

  “Day one rescue-mission training. You ready for this?” Garrett asked Mullen with a textbook NASA public relations grin. Mullen struggled to hear Garrett’s question over the noise of the dozens of questions from the cluster of reporters he left hanging in the air.

  “Hell, yes, I’m ready for the mission,” Mullen said, after a uniformed security officer pulled the door closed behind them, “but not for those crazies out there. I’ll bet there were 60 news vans out in the parking lot.”

  “They’re here to document every detail,” Garrett said. “You know, you’re supposed to stand there and answer all those questions for the reporters. It’s your duty as an astronaut. We’re the two mission specialist spacewalkers who are going to rescue the crew of Columbia. NASA figures it’s the least you can do for the privilege of riding its rockets.”

  “Yeah, right, I don’t think so,” Mullen said as the two walked down a short hall and then entered the men’s locker room.

  Garrett sensed a discord in his crewmate and best friend.

  “Hey, you okay? ’Cause you seem a little, uh, I dunno, a little off I guess, you know, more than usual,” Garrett said as he set his duffle on the bench. Mullen didn’t look up, so Garrett tried again from another angle. “Hey, you’re not hungover from last night, are you?”

  “Very funny. No, I’m not hungover. It’s just that I’m already feeling the pressure. I can’t believe I already feel the pressure. It’s like my ears are gonna start bleeding any minute and it’s only the first day of training!”

  “Maybe you should make an appointment with psych.”

  “Garrett, will you listen for a minute?”

  “Sorry, go ahead.”

  “Last night at the Outpost when Thomassan was outlining this mission, I felt great, excited. I knew I wanted this mission more than anything. I know I have the skills to get it done, but believe me I know our timing has a lot to do with it, too. There are a lot of other guys…”

  “You’re the most experienced guy we’ve got! What’s with all the self-doubt?”

  “Well, thanks, but let’s face it. Are you saying that if the need for a rescue had come five years earlier, or later for that matter—that everyone would have just thrown their hands up and said, ‘We’re screwed, can’t go get ’em, can’t do the rescue ‘cause we don’t have anybody who can do it?’ ”

  Garrett answered only with a shrug and a head shake, knowing, too, that there was a certain amount of luck involved. Nothing could beat being qualified for a mission when the mission came calling.

  Mullen continued pouring out more of his soul. “So, anyway, as I was driving home last night, it hit me, you know, the magnitude of it all. I began worrying that I’d get sick or hurt or something. That I’d get an ear infection and wouldn’t be able to train in the pool. That I’d get pulled from the mission.”

  “We will be watched closely,” Garrett began, but the
n stopped, thinking he had heard someone entering the locker room. They looked at each other in silence, but heard no other sounds.

  Garrett continued in a low voice.

  “The flight surgeon will be watching us very closely. The slightest anomaly in our health, and we’re toast.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Mullen fired back, louder than he intended. “The alternates are all chomping at the bit. I’ve started to wonder if I need to check underneath my car before I get in it—you know, to see if the brake lines have been cut. I worry that maybe I’ll turn the key in the ignition, I’ll hear a distinct series of clicks and then I’ll be blown into a million pieces. I’ll go veering off like an Atlas that’s lost its guidance.”

  Garrett rolled his eyes. “Please!”

  Mullen shrugged, “What? I’m scared shitless that I’ll get pulled. Check this out. Last night I had a dream we were on our backs, strapped in for the rescue mission, and everything was going well with the count. Then, when we were just about to come out of the hold at T-minus-nine minutes—I mean, the whole world’s ready to go flying with us on this rescue mission—you’ve got the picture, right?”

  Garrett nodded. “I think so, yes.”

  “So then all of a sudden, out of nowhere I hear the flight surgeon over the comm loop say, ‘Hey, did Mullen just cough? I think I heard Mullen cough. We’re going to have to swap him out. Hold the count. Notify the alternate.’ ”

  “Now you really are sounding paranoid.”

  “How should I feel?”

  “I don’t know. Did you wake up sweaty?”

  Mullen shot Garrett a stern look. “Oh, so you’re saying you don’t feel any pressure?”

  “Sure I feel the pressure, but there’s always pressure. You’ve flown three missions, you know the drill.”

  “Precisely the source of my paranoia. This mission is so huge I could hardly sleep last night. I feel like a rookie all over again, maybe worse. And the freakin’ media is everywhere. Oh, and never mind the fact that they’ve boiled the usual 40 to 50 weeks of training down to two. That shouldn’t be any big deal.”

  “Now you’re sounding bitter and paranoid,” Garrett said, pulling a T-shirt over his head. He looked at his watch. “It’s seven-twenty-five. Our pre-brief starts in five minutes.” Garrett was referring to the pre-brief meeting that preceded every microgravity simulation training session.

  Garrett had no doubts about NASA’s choice of Mullen for this mission. Mullen had demonstrated the necessary skills needed. He was by far the astronaut corps’ most-skilled, ready-to-go spacewalker. He knew Mullen was not as crazy as he sounded.

  Astronauts often worried they would be pulled from a mission. The road from when an astronaut was assigned to a mission to when he or she actually flew often stretched for what seemed like forever.

  Typically, astronauts were assigned to a particular mission well over a year beforehand, and often it was two years or more before the mission was expected to fly. The time to launch hinged on a number of factors, including delays due to equipment problems, vehicle maintenance, mission order shifts and, of course, weather holds and scrubs.

  All the variables titrated out to a given date and time for launch. If you happened to be well on the day the engines lit, great, you were going into space. Otherwise, your ride left without you.

  This mission was a career-maker, though, and would arguably become the most-watched and scrutinized mission of any kind in NASA’s history. Never before had a crew been expected to train and be ready to fly in as little as three weeks after being selected for a mission.

  The two astronauts closed their lockers, with Mullen heading out first.

  Garrett put his hand on Mullen’s shoulder and stopped him. “Hey man, if you wanna be a hero, you gotta pay the price.”

  Chapter 36

  Cocoa Beach, Florida

  Thursday, Jan. 23, 2003

  JOHN STANGLEY AWOKE with a start, metal telephone bells screaming into the silence of his hotel room. A wake-up call. He reached over, lifted the receiver just enough to register an answer, then dropped it back in place. He let out a heavy sigh, more as a sign of expression than exhaustion. He felt rested, actually, despite the hour.

  He turned again to look at the clock. “5:20 A.M.,” he said, then rolled back on the bed. Already, he could hear what sounded like a shower running in a nearby room. Someone’s already that far along in their morning, he thought, but he short-circuited the message before it could reach the worry center of his brain. Earlier in his career, the sound of a hotel shower from a neighboring room would be enough to get him to leap out of bed. Back then, he could not stand the thought that someone had a head start on him. Snooze buttons were anathema to him.

  But those days, his early days, seemed like a lifetime away. Instead of rushing to move into his day, he felt calm, and in no particular hurry. He was not expected to arrive at the Kennedy Space Center until eight that morning. He felt no particular need to get there early, and he was not even sure why he had scheduled such an early wake-up call.

  He just lay there on his back, hands under his head, savoring the early morning moment, letting his mind wander, until something took shape, floated to the surface.

  “Columbia flight day eight,” Stangley finally said out loud, slowly, deliberately, and with the drama of a radio announcer. As he listened to the sound of his own voice flatten out against the acoustic ceiling above him, he found himself moved by his own words.

  His first thoughts went to the crew.

  He wondered how the astronauts could stay sane in their doomed spaceship, unable to actively participate or help in their own rescue effort. All that specialized training and high-tech equipment had been rendered useless. Their character was all that was left. He tried to imagine himself in their place, how he would deal with their situation—the inactive days, the waiting, the helplessness, the inability to exercise, the need to conserve resources, and the interminable dim lighting.

  Muscles weakened further every day.

  The first possible launch of Atlantis was still 16 days away!

  In his mind’s eye he walked his body through a day aboard Columbia. He had the tools to fashion a terrific mental picture of an orbiter. He’d seen all the mock-ups, all the simulators; in fact, he was once allowed to enter Columbia’s flight deck during the post-Challenger accident stand-down, a privilege he treasured still.

  Lying in his bed, he imagined being weightless, imagined the conversations he would have with crewmates and reading e-mails from loved ones. The tone of those e-mails would vary based on the latest news from the Kennedy Space Center on how Atlantis was progressing toward launch.

  Twenty-five days would pass as slowly as a prison term.

  As in prison, too, the three reconstituted meals would undoubtedly become highlights of the day, dividing the waking hours into equal thirds. Finishing dinner would mean solitary confinement was just a few hours away.

  In his daydream of life in space, Stangley feared the nighttime most. He feared not being able to sleep, and being alone with his thoughts. That was what scared him most: the thought of being cut off from the rest of the crew for eight to ten hours while they were supposed to be sleeping. He imagined himself floating in space inside his sleeping bag, lights off, eyes open, wondering what NASA was keeping from him and his fellow crewmates.

  Stangley imagined Columbia crew members floating wide awake in their sleeping compartments, wondering whether NASA engineers had already discovered something that would prevent a launch. Had the ground crews run into a problem in prepping Atlantis?

  Let’s say they did discover Atlantis was a no-go for launch, Stangley thought, long before the consumables on Columbia were depleted. Would NASA then suggest they come in, anyway? Would the agency have them take their chances at Mach 25, knowing there was a hole in the wing?

  Stangley was certain the crew would ask for it. They certainly wouldn’t just wait in orbit for the end to come.


  “Rescue mission scrubbed, NASA/crew agree to attempt a landing, story at eleven,” Stangley muttered as he got out of bed.

  Chapter 37

  Kennedy Space Center, Florida

  Orbiter Processing Facility

  Columbia Flight Day 9

  Friday, Jan. 24, 2003

  “HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?” Wally Jensen questioned, his voice faltering with each word. He leaned forward in his office chair, placed his sausage-thick fingers over his wet face, and tried to wipe away the worry.

  He let out a heavy sigh through his tobacco-stained fingers. The comforting scent raced to his brain on a neurologic fast track. God I need a cigarette, he thought.

  He reveled in this quiet moment alone in his office, but knew it wouldn’t last long. He had a chance to think, time enough to imagine this was not really happening. Soon he would be briefed by the damage-assessment team. Then the frenzy of phone calls and emails would follow, relentless as telemarketers at dinnertime, demanding an answer. It was how it always went with an incident like this.

  What the hell happened?

  He was only months away from retirement. He’d spent 27 years at the Kennedy Space Center, the past 17-and-a-half as chief supervisor for orbiter processing. He had been at peace with the fact that he would retire before the space shuttle program completed its life cycle, before the International Space Station was finished.

  He had not expected a final defining mission for his career with NASA, or some great event that would serve as a send off. He expected no fanfare at his commencement. Instead, the commendations, awards and framed photos that covered his office walls would mark his years and would serve to remind him and others of his accomplishments and contributions to NASA.

  Then had come this problem with Columbia, and he had realized his career might end with a crescendo, after all. In fact, the more he had thought about it, the more certain he was that the rescue mission was going to make his career. He would retire as the chief supervisor responsible for getting Atlantis ready for the rescue mission. His work would serve as a showcase for how to get the work done; it would be a perfect management model. And it was all going to happen on his watch. He had even imagined himself profiting nicely from speaking engagements. Wally Jensen’s “How to Get the Troops to Rally for a Cause” would fill convention halls.