Launch on Need

by Daniel Guiteras

  “Okay. Then what? What comes after the sidehatch?” Warner asked, afraid to hear her answer.

  “Mullen goes and gets them, one at a time, using SAFER.”

  “The jet pack, huh.” He shook his head, rubbed his eyes with his palms, and forced a smile. “You do like your drama caffeinated,” he said, releasing a heavy sigh. “Alright Pollard, what do you want me to do first?”

  “Get Mullen and Garrett back inside Atlantis’s airlock, have ’em plug back in, but keep them in their suits. Then tell Commander Avery to move Atlantis down and away from Columbia’s port side a hundred feet or so, more if you think it’s necessary. Then we need to get Columbia’s commander and pilot to repress the airlock, then exit the airlock back into Columbia. Have them get their crew-escape cue cards out so they can review the procedures for a sidehatch jettison. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes with the rest of the details.”

  Chapter 72

  GARRETT AND MULLEN WERE FLOATING above Atlantis, casual as two friends loitering at a celestial bus stop, when the CapCom doled out the first installment of instructions in scant detail. The full complement of rescue instructions was to come over time.

  Mullen tethered off to an external handhold of the airlock and allowed his muscles to slacken, stealing a much needed break. He moved his head and lips, found the straw, and took a hit from his drink pouch. Floating just above, he watched Garrett lower himself down through Atlantis’s airlock hatchway. It was during this idle moment that Mullen heard the CapCom click in over the comm loop and say something he couldn’t have imagined even in one of his best beer-fueled fantasies.

  “Houston for Mullen,” said the CapCom.

  “Mullen here Cap, fire away.”

  “About the extraction of the commander and pilot. Once the sidehatch is off and Avery gets you guys and Atlantis back up to Columbia, we want you to use SAFER for the final extraction.”

  Garrett was listening, too, and smiled, knowing what Mullen was feeling. Lucky bastard. He didn’t hear a reply from Mullen, and figured he’d either been shocked into silence or that he’d smiled so big that he’d cracked his helmet and was now dead.

  “Mullen you copy?” CapCom asked.

  “Uh. Yeah. Sorry, Houston. Copy. Use SAFER for transfer.”

  The SAFER (Simplified Aid For EVA Rescue) unit was an 83-pound, self-propelled backpack system that served as an add-on to the standard EMU space suit. The SAFER unit was a simplified version of the earlier, much larger and more cumbersome Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU). It provided a means for self-rescue in the event an astronaut drifted off untethered from the ISS or an orbiter during a space walk.

  The propulsion mechanism of SAFER was simple by design. As the astronaut moved the pistol-grip joystick, sophisticated avionics software directed stored nitrogen gas through one or more of 24 nozzles mounted about the unit. As the gas exited a particular nozzle or group of nozzles, the astronaut moved in the corresponding opposite direction. Maximum velocity change was nearly 10 feet per second.

  The mood among Atlantis’s rescued five had been shattered by the grim reality that the rescue of their commander and pilot was in jeopardy. The news was no surprise to Avery and Rivas, who’d been up on Atlantis’s flight deck during the entire rescue EVA, manually flying Atlantis, maintaining her proximity to Columbia. They had seen firsthand the trouble Mullen was having with Columbia’s airlock.

  “Houston, Atlantis. Avery here.”

  “We copy, go ahead.”

  “Garrett and Mullen are set. We’re ready to move.”

  “Copy that, Avery. You’re clear. We’ll be watching for separation on your mark.”

  Avery looked over at Rivas. He nodded that he was ready. Avery checked her grip on the rotational hand controller, then looked up at Columbia through the two 20-by-20-inch overhead aft flight deck windows.

  “Roger, Houston,” Avery said. “Initiating RCS burn in five, four, three, two, one, mark.”

  Atlantis’s Reaction Control System jets fired in response to Avery’s hand controller inputs.

  “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty feet out now,” Rivas said. Avery and Rivas watched from the overhead flight deck windows. The five rescued Columbia crew members crowded Avery and Rivas on the flight deck, vying for a view of Columbia as Atlantis pulled away. Peering aft through the windows just a few feet away, they saw the closed airlock in Atlantis’s payload bay, where Garrett and Mullen waited for a second chance at rescue. Looking out and up, the image of Columbia faded slowly in the black starriness.

  “Sixty now, sixty feet,” Rivas called out, a warning in his voice. He glanced Avery’s way.

  She caught his look. She knew she’d been heavy on the stick. “Hey, the sooner we get to 100 feet, the sooner they can jett the sidehatch.”

  “That’s true,” Rivas said. “It just felt like you were taking us all the way back to Kennedy, that’s all.”

  “Very funny,” she said.

  “Seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty. Twenty feet till hold target.”

  Avery was back on the controller now, performing another RCS burn, this time using opposing jets to slow and eventually stop Atlantis one-hundred feet from Columbia.

  “Ninety-four, five. Six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One-hundred feet.”

  “Houston, Atlantis holding at one-hundred feet,” Avery said.

  “Roger, Atlantis. Stand by at one hundred.”

  While Columbia’s commander and pilot waited for the pressure of Columbia’s airlock to equal that of Columbia’s living area, they reviewed with Mission Control possible hazards inside Columbia. Sharp edges and blunt objects could tear lethal holes in their suits. Orbiters were not designed with the idea that astronauts would be working in the living areas while wearing EVA suits.

  When the pressure had equalized, the commander reached for the airlock hatch actuator arm. He tried not to pause his movement before rotating the arm—tried not to, but there was a definite pause as he contemplated how screwed they’d be if this door, too, would not open.

  “Houston, Columbia. Alright, we’re exiting the airlock.”

  “We read you Columbia, standing by.”

  The gears turned, the actuators worked, the double seal released. The blessed hatch opened.

  But there were none of the usual sounds an astronaut hears when exiting the airlock after an EVA. Not the distant sound of conversation, of equipment in use, not the welcome from crewmates. Columbia’s commander and pilot heard none of these sounds for two simple reasons: They still had their EVA suits on, and there was no one else aboard. The gasket-sealed joints between helmet and torso, waist and pants, and glove and sleeve were still engaged. The suits’ life-support systems were still supporting life.

  “Take it real slow guys. You’ll have more room to move around once you’re out of the airlock,” CapCom said.

  Chapter 73

  STANGLEY FELT SICKENED by the task of having to repeatedly readjust what the totality of the rescue mission might mean. That his beloved space shuttle had malfunctioned. That maybe only five of the seven astronauts would be rescued. He realized one could argue that five out of seven would still be an incredible achievement given the mission’s odds for success.

  As he spoke to his TV audience, he found himself fumbling. His producer kept prompting him to bring the audience up to date, recap. “Stay positive, keep their heads in it,” she told him. But he had trouble splitting his attention between the recap and the live feed of Columbia’s commander and pilot, EVA-suited, moving into the living quarters of Columbia. What he wanted most was to retreat, to go home, curl up with his very own TV, and just watch what happened without interruption. It was as if his brain had resigned from its duties, and now only meaningless strings of jumbled words fell from his mouth.

  Columbia’s commander was first out of the airlock. He looked ahead as he made his way forward, scanning the walls of the 100-square-foot mid-deck for items that could snag his suit. Th
e already cramped spacecraft was now further diminished by their bulky space suits.

  At the corners of his helmet, the visual image of the mid-deck interior distorted slightly as he floated, as if he were looking through a fish-eye lens. To his immediate right were the sleeping stations. Straight ahead, the panel of stowage lockers and the crew’s farewell picture he’d left taped there. The warm relief he’d felt at that moment of good-bye, the aching tug of mixed feelings, seemed now to be irrelevant, an odd interlude.

  To the left of the lockers was the galley, and to the left of the galley was the sidehatch. Below him, in the floor of the mid-deck, he saw the outlines of the floor compartments. He thought back seven hours, and remembered opening the compartment to install fresh LiOH canisters brought by Mullen on his first trip up from Atlantis.

  “Columbia, Houston, how do you read?”

  “Houston, Columbia, we copy, loud and clear.”

  “Be advised, Atlantis has been safed for Columbia sidehatch jettison,” CapCom said.

  “Roger Houston, Atlantis on standby.”

  Columbia’s commander carefully lowered himself so that his hands and helmet were near the floor of Columbia’s mid-deck. He inched along, forward of the sidehatch where the port mid-deck wall met the mid-deck floor, until he reached the T-handle enclosure.

  “Okay, Houston. I’m at the T-handle enclosure.”

  “Copy.”

  The commander released a lever and pulled the door of the enclosure down toward the mid-deck floor, revealing two separate T-handles.

  “Give me a second here,” the commander said as he struggled to remove the safing pin from the aft T-handle. “The guy who designed this didn’t envision the end user would be wearing an EVA suit and gloves.”

  “We copy Columbia. Take your time,” CapCom said.

  Sounds of frustration in space and on Earth persisted for 20 seconds.

  “Okay,” the commander said, sounding short of breath. “The pin’s out.”

  The commander settled his hand on the aft T-handle. “Houston, stand by for cabin depress,” he said as he first squeezed the Thandle, then pulled it down toward the floor.

  Columbia’s commander had never professed to be an expert on all orbiter systems, but he did have expert knowledge of how the crew escape system worked. He knew, for instance, that if the sidehatch were jettisoned before the crew cabin was depressed, the result would be catastrophic. Even at an altitude of only 40,000 feet, or the intended use altitude, jettisoning the sidehatch without first depressurizing the crew cabin would cause severe buckling of the mid-deck floor. To accomplish ideal crew-cabin depressurization—that is, to match the outside ambient pressure with the pressure inside Columbia’s crew cabin in a controlled manner—engineers had equipped Columbia with a pyro vent valve. When activated, the valve would open a 15-inch-square hole in the bulkhead that separated the crew cabin from the payload bay.

  “Houston, Columbia. PVV is go. Thirty seconds remaining on the depress.”

  “Copy that Columbia.”

  The commander checked his watch while he maintained his position at the T-handle box.

  “Okay Houston, depress complete. I’m going to pull the jett safing pin now.”

  “Copy Columbia. Break, break, Atlantis this is Houston. Stand by for sidehatch jettison.”

  “This is Avery on Atlantis, we copy on the standby, Houston.”

  “Alright, second pin is out,” the commander said.

  Through clear face shields, the commander and pilot exchanged looks, wordlessly wishing each other luck.

  “Okay, here we go with jettison,” the commander said. He placed his gloved hand on the forward T-handle, squeezed, then pulled down. In an instant, three separate sets of pyrotechnics performed perfectly. First, four linear-shaped charges fired, severing Columbia’s two sidehatch hinges. Next, two expanding tube assemblies fractured the 70 frangible bolts that connected the sidehatch adapter ring to Columbia. Finally, three thruster packs fired, rocketing the sidehatch into space at a velocity of approximately 50 feet per second.

  “Houston, Columbia. Sidehatch is off and away,” the commander said.

  “Copy sidehatch jett.”

  “Houston, Atlantis. Sidehatch jettison from our vantage point appears nominal.”

  “Copy that, Atlantis.”

  The seven aboard Atlantis watched Columbia’s sidehatch fly. It twisted and turned, flickered like a mote of dust passing through rays of sunlight. Then it was gone.

  Chapter 74

  Johnson Space Center, Houston

  Mission Control

  CAPCOM JIM HADLEY was no stranger to the EVA space suit. He’d worked countless hours outside the space station in the exact same type of suit Columbia’s commander and pilot were currently wearing. In the short pause before the next rescue milestone, he sat quietly at his Mission Control console and tried to imagine the predicament of the two remaining Columbia astronauts. Stranded inside their spacecraft with EVA suits on, crew cabin depressed, and the sidehatch blown out. What a god-damned mess!

  He thought of himself as a hostage negotiator or a police psychologist trying to get inside the mind of his suspect, to see what he saw, and sense the fear that drove him. He recalled memories of his own space walks, the sound of rhythmic breathing inside his helmet, the grunts and occasional breath-holding that came during physical effort. Then he closed his eyes to better visualize what they’d see from the sidehatch doorway, peering out through an unfamiliar opening, an unexpected breach in their spacecraft.

  Hadley’s chief concern was that one or both of Columbia’s remaining astronauts would become nauseous. NASA could not afford for either of them to vomit. Columbia was still orbiting upside down relative to Earth, and so to help with visual orientation, he figured the two Columbia astronauts might try to position themselves so they could look down on Earth. Nearly their entire field of vision would be of Earth spinning beneath them. In the foreground, Atlantis would be rising up toward them, at least until it reached its new rendezvous point. Then it would hold its position slightly offset from Columbia to simplify the SAFER flying for Mullen. The combination of movements had the potential to be a motion-sickness nightmare for an astronaut.

  “Columbia, Houston,” CapCom called.

  “Go ahead, Houston,” the commander said.

  “We need you guys to tether your suits to the inside of Columbia ASAP. Falling out is ill-advised. Also, watch out for the visuals from the sidehatch opening. Don’t want anyone getting sick up there.”

  Columbia’s pilot was already at the sidehatch peering out, and as he heard the CapCom talking to his commander, he turned to give him a thumbs-up; he was still okay.

  “Uh, Houston, we’re both good,” the commander said. “And copy interior tether.”

  Borne of centuries of tradition, it went unspoken that the commander would be last to leave Columbia. And so automatically the pilot positioned himself for first out, and tethered his suit to the grab bar that was now low and to the right of the sidehatch opening.

  “Houston, Atlantis. We’re set to begin our way back up to our new rendezvous station with Columbia.”

  “Roger, Atlantis, hold when you reach forty feet.”

  “Copy, hold at forty,” Commander Avery said.

  Rivas counted out the closing distance for Avery. As they approached a 40-foot separation, Avery slowed, using the rotational hand controller, and at exactly the 40-foot mark, she held Atlantis still.

  On rendezvous station, and finally given the okay from Mission Control, Garrett and Mullen flew out of Atlantis’s airlock like players from a dugout three outs away from winning the World Series. Seconds later, they tethered to Atlantis’s payload bay slide wire and switched on their four helmet lights.

  While waiting in the airlock, they’d been briefed by the Cap-Com on the procedures for rescuing the last two Columbia astronauts. Mullen could hardly wait to get to it. He hurried to get the first task out of the way: helping Garrett ge
t up and secured on the payload bay fixed platform. It was the same platform and position they’d used during the rescue of the other five Columbia crew members.

  Once Garrett signaled he felt secure, Mullen braced himself in an upright position relative to Atlantis’s payload bay. He reached down to the lower right-hand side of the suit backpack, hunted briefly under glove-muted tactile feedback, and activated the SAFER release lever. He raised the SAFER’s hand controller module (HCM), a box comprised of multiple switches, a joystick-like hand controller, and a 16-character LCD display. He connected the HCM to the front of his suit at chest level, then grabbed the hand controller to test the feel of it in his gloved hand. As he did all this, and contemplated what he was about to do, he whispered Shepard’s Prayer over and over in the privacy of his helmet: “Please, dear God, don’t let me fuck up.”

  “Okay, I’m turning on my SAFER now,” Mullen said, reaching for the three-stage toggle labeled “PWR.” With his index finger he carefully flicked it one click to the “ON” position, then another single click to “TST” so his SAFER unit could run its self-test. He followed the prompts on the display as the unit performed the thruster test, a controller and display test and, finally, a rate-sensor function test.

  “Be advised, AAH must be set to ‘ON’ and mode select is ‘TRAN,’ ” the CapCom reminded Mullen, referring to “automatic attitude hold.”

  Mullen looked down through his tinted helmet visor at the display on the HCM. “Copy, alpha-alpha-hotel set to ON.” Then, with his right thumb he single-clicked the button at the top of the hand controller, turning on AAH. Next, he flipped the toggle switch labeled “Mode” to the right, selecting “TRAN.”

  “Green LED for AAH is on. Mode is set to translate.”

  “Copy.”

  Mullen’s historic moment was just seconds away. He was excited to ride SAFER for the first time, knew it was an honor. As part of his rescue-mission training, Mullen had practiced using SAFER in NASA’s virtual reality lab. The focus of that training had been for using SAFER in an emergency, such as if one of the Columbia astronauts became untethered. It had not been part of the planned rescue strategy. Nonetheless, he felt technically ready for his flight. But that other part of him—his neurotic and self-doubting side—was not letting go. Mullen’s imagination taunted him. His mental rehearsal of a controlled ascent to Columbia was interrupted by images of himself being whipped around, flying out of control far away from Atlantis, like a huge balloon suddenly let loose.