Launch on Need
Page 31
“Correct.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. I think we’ll be fine. Think of all the tile damage we’ve seen post-flight. We didn’t worry about those flights because we didn’t know the damage was there. I don’t think the damage Atlantis has now is much worse than what we’ve seen in the past.”
“Well, I just hope we have enough luck left over for reentry.”
Pollard nodded.
“You don’t think Mullen used it all up flying around today?”
“No Allan, I think there’s still some luck left.”
“Good.”
“So what else?” Pollard asked.
Warner looked puzzled.
“You said you were worried about two things—what’s the other one?”
“What to do with Columbia after Atlantis comes home.”
“I thought you guys were going to do a remote de-orbit burn into the Pacific.”
“Right, we were. But that was before we blew her sidehatch and exposed her electronics to the extreme temperatures of space.”
Chapter 76
On Atlantis
Columbia Flight Day 27
Tuesday, Feb. 11, 2003
SPACE SHUTTLE ORBITERS had always been considered unique vehicles, not only because of their ability to perform both as a spacecraft and airplane, but also because of their versatility in performing specialized tasks in space. Despite the technical marvel of its design, however, the orbiter was never intended to transport 11 astronauts.
Now with 11 astronauts onboard, Atlantis felt crowded as a college-apartment party. The living quarters were a blur of orange as 11 astronauts finished donning their pumpkin-colored flight suits and took their assigned seats for reentry.
On the flight deck of Atlantis, the four astronauts of the rescue crew—Avery, Rivas, Garrett, and Mullen—busied themselves with line items from the landing-procedure cards. They had already begun loading the de-orbit burn targets into the guidance, navigation and flight-control software. The burn targets were the necessary variables used by the software. The variables included current altitude, the landing site—the Kennedy Space Center—and velocity/flight-path data. The software used those variables, taking into consideration Atlantis’s heat-shield thermal limits. This assured that Atlantis would not come in too fast or too steep, either of which would exceed her heat-shield’s ability to sufficiently dissipate heat on reentry.
Below on the mid-deck, the seven tested Columbia astronauts sat quietly, belted to makeshift semi-reclined seats. They had endured the contingency EVA from Columbia to Atlantis, and of course they had also endured nearly 30 very uncertain, interminable days in space. Their wretched mess of a mission was nearly over.
It was an unspoken moment of reflection and prayer for Columbia’s seven. A time for listening to radio calls between Houston and Atlantis. It was also the time when Columbia crew members began to long for home. To imagine how the first steaming-hot, high-pressure shower would feel, the taste of a grilled cheeseburger, and the pastel scent of fabric-softened, fresh bed linens. The innate comfort of gravity was just over an hour away.
Atlantis was coming home.
“Atlantis, Houston, you’re go for retrograde attitude, and switch to OPS three, when you’re ready.”
“We copy, go for retrograde and switch to OPS three.” (As part of the orbiter’s flight control software, OPS three specifically handled reentry and landing.)
Avery took hold of the rotational hand controller joystick to gain control of Atlantis’s reaction control system (RCS) jets. She made small, careful inputs, turning Atlantis around with short jet pulses until Atlantis’s nose was faced away from the direction of orbit. Atlantis’s orbiter maneuvering system (OMS) pods, those aft bulges visible above Atlantis’s main engine bells, now faced into the direction of flight.
Next, the astronauts on the flight deck readied the OMS engines for firing by performing data checks and thrust-vector gimbal tests.
“Atlantis, Houston, major mode three-oh-two.”
“Copy, major mode three-oh-two.”
Avery and Rivas made the necessary software inputs. Major mode 302 allowed the OMS engine burn to be executed. Entering this mode was similar to turning the firing key of a missile-launch system to “Arm.”
At the exact moment, the OMS engines lit without hesitation, burning for a duration of two minutes and 43 seconds. This was the amount of time Atlantis’s computers had determined was necessary to sufficiently slow the orbiter and cause her to fall from orbit at the right place and rate.
“Atlantis, Houston, major mode three-oh-three.”
“Houston, Atlantis, we copy, major mode three-oh-three. Deorbit maneuver coast.”
Entry Interface (EI), defined as the point where Earth’s atmosphere was first encountered by a spacecraft on reentry, occurred at an altitude of 400,000 feet, and was designated as EI+000 seconds. All events that occurred after EI were expressed as the number of seconds elapsed since the point of EI. An orbiter was said to have initiated the entry phase of flight when she was EI-plus-five minutes.
Atlantis was Earthbound, dialed in for a landing at the Kennedy Space Center. Nothing could be done now by the crew or Mission Control to stop Atlantis’s descent to Earth.
NASA Announcer: Atlantis currently at five-hundred-fifty-thousand feet in altitude, airspeed twenty-five-thousand-three-hundred feet per second. Atlantis is now a little over five-thousand statute miles from home. Pilot Edward Rivas now preparing Atlantis for Entry Interface as he maneuvers the orbiter to zero degrees roll, zero degrees yaw and proper pitch.
“It is during this period of reentry,” John Stangley interjected between Mission Control communications, “that Atlantis makes the transition from spacecraft to aircraft. As she continues to drop in altitude and the atmosphere becomes more dense, her control surfaces such as rudder and elevons become active. This is the hallmark of the transition from spacecraft to aircraft.”
MCC (mission control center) Commentator: Atlantis now well into Entry Interface with current altitude of two-hundred seventy-five thousand feet. Standing by for communications blackout.
“Now, this is always a nervous time for engineers at Mission Control,” Stangley said with excitement, feeling the pace of his speech quicken. “This period of communications blackout—it’s a normal part of every orbiter reentry. As the orbiter slices down through Earth’s atmosphere,” Stangley said while demonstrating with an orbiter model, “there is terrific heating going on all around the orbiter. Now, we’ve talked about this in the past—it’s those heat resistant tiles on the orbiter’s underbelly that are going to fight back the heat and protect the astronauts. The heated atoms of air form an impenetrable barrier around the orbiter that blocks incoming or outgoing radio signals—that is, radio signals sent from Mission Control up to Atlantis, or from Atlantis down to Mission Control.”
Stangley paused for a few seconds to listen to the NASA announcer. “Okay, we’re just seconds now from entering the blackout period for Atlantis—the point of reentry when an orbiter is between about two-hundred-sixty-five-thousand feet down to about one-hundred-sixty-five-thousand feet. It’s expected to take Atlantis approximately sixteen minutes to pass through this blackout region. Let’s hope and pray that Atlantis’s heat shield holds during reentry.”
Chapter 77
Simultaneously, Kennedy Space Center, Florida
A FLIGHT OF FOUR F-15E Strike Eagles vaporized the late-morning Atlantic marine layer, scorching a path as they flew. They materialized at a point on the horizon directly south of the Kennedy Space Center. They came fast and with purpose, their bellies laden with eight AMRAAM fire-and-forget missiles.
“Four Eagles ten seconds out from the south on a heading of zero-one-niner at fifteen-hundred feet above the deck,” the officer called out, his eyes glued to the radar-tracking screen at his station. “I’ve got four helos now from the northeast—all Sikorskys, two 60Ns and two 3Ds. It’s Marine-one, sir. ETA eight, no, seven minutes now.”
The F-15Es crossed the coastline and broke formation with a percussive force that shook windows and bones over a two-mile radius. In the rear cockpit of each of the four jets, a weapons-systems officer watched his four screens for any new radar information, checked for infrared heat signatures on the ground, monitored weapons status, and assisted with aircraft navigation through a real-time electronic terrain map.
It was the work of the U.S. Air Force’s 45th Space Wing.
Nearby the Kennedy Space Center, at Patrick Air Force Base, the Manned Spaceflight Support Office of the Department of Defense had established a round-the-clock support operations center for Columbia’s rescue mission, STS-300. The center provided standard services such as contingency landing-site and medical support, but also was ready in the event of such emergencies as off-runway landings or other threats to astronauts. The center also coordinated with NASA security.
Today was different, however. NASA and the Air Force were as prepared for this landing as they had been for all previous landings at the Kennedy Space Center. But now, NASA was minutes away from completing that which had been thought impossible: NASA was bringing the crew of Columbia home. NASA had summitted the equivalent of ten Everests, and had made it look easy.
Today’s mission, as it had been given to the men and women of the 45th Space Wing, was simple and clear: Atlantis and her combined crew of 11 astronauts were to land safely—without exception.
If the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center had been a terrorist target because they represented America’s economic power, then the space shuttle was equally a target, since it represented the sum of America’s technological sophistication. The shuttle was an American icon, a national asset whose majestic launches and landings pulled at heartstrings and symbolized America’s roots—the roots of patriotism, of exploration, and of discovery—of where we have been and how far we’ve come.
There could be no breach in security, not by land, nor sea, nor air. Heavily armed SWAT teams were positioned throughout the 140,000-acre spaceport. Helicopter gunships in coordination with fighter jets above patrolled a 12-mile radius of the runway, meticulously searching for threat, but in particular the enemy prepared to launch a shoulder-fired heat-seeking missile at Atlantis.
The four identically painted Marine-1 Sikorsky helicopters hovered over the shuttle landing facility briefly, as Marines on the ground readied the site for arrival. After a signal from the ground, one of the 60Ns quickly dropped from formation and landed. The door opened immediately and a Marine appeared and saluted. He stepped aside. A second later, the president of the United States appeared in the doorway and waved to the lucky hundred or so seated in the bleachers. Before a single minute could pass, he was taken away to a secured area by a three-car Cadillac-1 motorcade.
Chapter 78
On Atlantis
Tuesday, Feb. 11, 2003
ON THE MID-DECK OF ATLANTIS, Columbia’s crew sat recumbent in their seats, wrestling with a new problem: the sobering effect of gravity. Their physical strength had silently and progressively slipped away during their activity-restricted mission from hell. The microgravity environment of space had asked so little of their bodies that the daily decrement in strength came with little or no apparent cost, no immediate effect on their function. This muscle weakening progressed in increments too small to measure. It came without perception, like the daily growth of a child.
As the gravity-laden minutes passed, Columbia’s rescued seven tried to lift their leaden arms from their laps, tried to contract their quadriceps to straighten their knees. They even attempted the now seemingly impossible task of lifting their helmeted heads from the headrests. In doing so, they found that their heads moved inside their helmets, but the helmets themselves stayed fixed, as if fastened down by heavy steel chains.
Up on the flight deck, the “g-meter” on instrument panel F7 showed the true force of gravity the astronauts were experiencing. The needle currently registered only .73g, not even the normal oneg experienced on Earth. To Columbia’s seven, though, their weakness was real. Gravity had crept in all around them, smothering them, making the g-meter seem off by a factor of ten.
The great day had finally arrived: rescue mission landing day at the Kennedy Space Center. Never before had the center and the surrounding areas been this busy with spectators. Today’s numbers broke all previous records, including those for any of the Apollo missions and even the most recent attendance record set when Atlantis launched with the rescue crew. Formal observation areas were not just busy; they were congested, clogged, packed. It was a large-scale invasion.
For older spectators who remembered the Apollo program and the “glory days” at NASA, the success of the Columbia rescue mission gave them a chance to relive their special time in history. For younger viewers who had heard about the moon landing for as long as they could remember, this rescue mission represented an important event in their own history. It was their Apollo 11, their moon landing, their great day.
Some spectators were so avid, so entrenched, they had never left after the launch of Atlantis. They were camping out for the duration of the rescue mission, eating delivery pizza, waiting patiently for the landing and the return of their heroes.
Every major road and highway even remotely near the Kennedy Space Center was jammed with unmoving cars. The Brevard County sheriff, assisted by tow-truck crews, had managed to tow enough cars to allow emergency vehicle access through the otherwise blocked roads. Beyond that, the number of violators was so staggering, there were not enough resources to restore normal traffic flow. The good news was that no one had any desire to leave.
It was difficult to find a car that didn’t display some reference to the rescue mission. There were bumper stickers everywhere, magnetic STS-300 mission-patch logos that had been slapped on the sides of vehicles, and astronaut tributes painted on side and rear windows of SUVs and cars.
Nearly everyone walking around the well-known viewing areas wore a shuttle-related hat or shirt. Mission patches for STS-107 and STS-300 had been sewn to the fronts of kids’ denim jackets. Reporters and their camera crews roamed the crowds for interviews and found devoted fans wearing jackets or sweatshirts decorated with every Shuttle patch ever made—all 114 of them.
One man removed his shirt for the cameras, revealing his most recent tattoo. In the center of his back was a 1-foot-square replica of the STS-300 rescue mission patch.
“Okay, we’re out of the blackout period now. Atlantis has just made it through the communications blackout period,” Stangley said with obvious excitement. CNN’s coverage of the landing was now focused on Stangley and his comments. The producer had agreed to not break away to “on the ground” correspondents until after Atlantis had landed. It was what Stangley had always asked for but not yet received. His argument was that most networks talked far too much during their launch and landing coverage, often talking over the NASA announcer and the communications between Mission Control and crew. “There’s a certain exactness to what the announcer is saying,” Stangley had told the production team at their last meeting, “that compliments what the audience is watching on their TV screens. Anything the anchorperson says usually sounds watered down, dummied down, and is often more annoying than helpful,” he had pleaded.
“The blackout typically lasts for sixteen minutes,” Stangley continued now, “which is what we saw for Atlantis today. Always a long sixteen minutes for the engineers at Mission Control. On your screen now is a live shot from Mission Control at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. There is certainly a serious expression on the faces at Mission Control today. Now, if you turn your attention to the center-most monitor, the large screen at the front of the room, you can see Atlantis superimposed on a map of the western world. That is where Atlantis is in relation to the landing site here at the Kennedy Space Center.
“Everything is in place now. Just a few moments ago we showed you the president and first lady arriving via Marine-one. They landed on a spec
ially prepared area at the shuttle landing facility. What a day it’s been, the tension and excitement building by the minute. We’ve seen fighter jets, helicopter gunships and SWAT teams. And now we’re just a few minutes away from the big moment as Atlantis prepares to touch down here at the Kennedy Space Center. Let’s listen in.”
MCC Commentator: Pilot Edward Rivas confirming for us that Atlantis is indeed through the communications blackout period. Rivas, reestablishing communications with Mission Control less than a minute ago.
Atlantis is now five-hundred fifty-three miles from the Kennedy Space Center, velocity just less than eighty-three hundred miles per hour. Twelve minutes thirty-seven seconds from touchdown.
Atlantis will be arriving from the northwest today. The weather officer confirming Atlantis is “Go” for runway three-three here at the Kennedy Space Center.
Before its final approach to the runway, Atlantis will cross over nearly perpendicular to the runway, then enter the heading alignment circle, which today will require a right hand turn out over the Atlantic before aligning with runway thirty-three.
Atlantis currently completing a series of “S-turns,” bleeding off excess speed—banking as much as eighty degrees at times. Coming up on terminal area energy management interface as the orbiter continues to drop in altitude on its way to the landing target.”
Most of the people watching were many miles away from the landing site, but with binoculars they could see Atlantis enter the heading alignment circle before final approach and landing. For the truly seasoned viewers, though, it would not be anything they would see straining through binoculars that would get them cheering. Instead, it would be the distinct twin sonic booms heard as an orbiter crossed over the Indian River. More than anything else, diehard space fans tuned into the orbiter’s signature sound that announced her arrival.
MCC Commentator: Atlantis just five minutes twenty-seven seconds away from touchdown. Air-speed is sixteen-hundred miles per hour. Winds out of the northeast at three miles per hour, altitude eighty-thousand feet. Less than sixty miles now from the Kennedy Space Center.