On the mid-deck of Atlantis, the seven astronauts of Columbia had all but given up their fight with gravity. They lay motionless, helpless really, in their rescue seats.
MCC Commentator: You’re looking at a view from the flight deck of Atlantis, a heads-up display camera view as Commander Dana Avery flies Atlantis into the heading alignment circle. Avery will be flying Atlantis around a two-hundred-ninety-degree right-hand turn.
A fraction of a second apart, twin sonic booms bounced across central Florida. She was home and right on time.
MCC Commentator: Atlantis now subsonic after crossing over the Indian River.
Currently John Stangley’s skin was alive with gooseflesh and his cheeks were streaming with tears of pride. When he tried to form words, his lips merely trembled. He likely wouldn’t be much use as a news anchor until well after Atlantis landed. Seeing this, CNN’s producer just stayed with the audio and video feed from NASA.
Only once before could Stangley remember feeling this way—like his central nervous system had been bumped off line. It was New Year’s Day 1969, in Pasadena, California. He remembered the screaming crowds, a strangely warm Santa Ana wind, and the blindingly white clouds in motion against a bright-blue January sky.
He was a seasoned trombone player in Ohio State’s marching band, and his team was only minutes away from defeating USC in the Rose Bowl.
He clearly pictured himself and his band mates, marching like disciplined soldiers across the 50-yard line. Precisely executing right and left turns, drums echoing in staccato, hats dipping and tilting together, trombone slides pointing to the sky in unison. The band was playing “Hang On Sloopy” at the Rose Bowl, and his Buckeyes were winning. Consumed by the moment, he could barely play his instrument, his lips trembling then, too.
“Atlantis, Houston. On at the one-eighty,” CapCom said.
“Roger, on at the one-eighty,” Commander Avery acknowledged.
MCC Commentator: Again we see the pilot’s point of view as Atlantis continues on around the heading alignment circle. Past the one-eighty mark now. Just a little more than a quarter turn remaining. Two minutes until touchdown. The crosshairs of the heads-up display about to converge on the entry point to the fifteen-thousand-foot concrete runway of the Kennedy Space Center.
CapCom cut in again. “Atlantis, Houston. On at the ninety.”
“Roger, on at the ninety,” Avery said.
Atlantis floated through its final bank in the pale blue sky, then leveled out, nose down low in an 18-degree glide slope.
MCC Commentator: Atlantis continuing to glide in without power now. Winds steady out of the northeast at three knots. Nose now flaring up. Pilot Edward Rivas deploying the landing gear.
The downrange runway camera captured Atlantis in a post-flare pose, showing off her satin-finish underbelly. Instantly, the plane of her belly broke as the nose gear and the left and right main landing gear doors sprang open. Hydraulic actuators moved all three landing gear into position.
MCC Commentator: Instrument talk-backs aboard Atlantis confirm landing gear is down and locked. Airspeed just over two-hundred miles per hour now. We have main gear touchdown.
White spirals of smoke burst from the Michelins upon contact.
MCC Commentator: Rivas deploying the drag chute. Nose rotating to the deck. Nose gear touchdown. Atlantis rolling out on runway three-three at the Kennedy Space Center, bringing home Columbia’s marooned seven-person crew. Stranded for thirty days in space—the crew has been successfully rescued by Columbia’s sister ship Atlantis, all eleven astronauts now safely back on Earth.
On televisions throughout the world, Atlantis could be seen rolling along the runway centerline; her remaining journey now could be measured in feet. When Atlantis finally came to rest, NASA’s announcer waited for Commander Avery’s final words—the words that would signal the end of the rescue mission.
“Houston, Atlantis. Wheel stop.”
Chapter 79
Johnson Space Center, Houston
Mission Control
BROWN TURNED AND LOOKED UP at the monitors while leaning back against the flight director’s console. His eyes scanned the familiar room, stopping first at the American flag and then at the illuminated royal-blue letters at the front of the room that read: “Mission Control Center.”
He was aware of the fact that he had split from all the conversations in the room. He suddenly felt alone and out of place. A sickening pang of sadness shuddered through him as he realized he had worked his final day at NASA, that NASA would go on without him, without his worrying. That the agency would go on to do great things. He hoped he had left his mark.
The images on the monitors at Mission Control had long gone stale, essentially unchanged over the past hour. Ground crews and their vehicles occasionally moved in and out of the video frame, but mostly it was the same shot of Atlantis stopped on the tarmac at the Kennedy Space Center.
Brown had given more high-fives that morning than he had given in his whole lifetime, but today’s high-fives were given as a send-off, and were not meant to be congratulatory. He was merely passing the baton.
The parties and all-night celebrations, the traditional cigars, the parades through every city in America—Brown simply was not interested in all that. He had never been much for parties or celebrations, anyway, and frankly he did not think there was much to celebrate. It had been a great save. The astronauts and their families were finally united. No way he could dispute that. But as far as Brown was concerned there never should have been the need for a rescue mission. Too many people looked the wrong way for too long, Brown thought, scanning the room and half-listening to the din of celebratory voices.
He made his way to the rear of Mission Control Center, hoping to make a quiet, unnoticed exit. He made a final survey of the room, tried to remember all the history he’d seen over the years, acknowledge his own contributions.
Seeing Brown heading to the exit, Allan Warner broke away from his console and called out. “Hey, Brown, you’re not leaving us, are you?” But Warner already knew his answer. He’d felt Brown’s retirement was coming. The successful rescue mission had afforded Brown a chance to make a clean break. “You’re not staying around for the champagne?”
“My work is through here, Allan.”
Warner knew this could easily be the last time he would see Brown. Brown was the kind of guy who when he said good-bye, he meant it. Good-bye never meant so long, or see you later.
“What? No final words?” Warner asked, poking at Brown.
Brown smiled back but said nothing, kept walking. When Brown finally reached the door, he stopped and looked back. Warner had already rejoined his group.
Figures, Brown thought. Life sure moves on. But Brown did have a comment.
“Hey Warner,” Brown called out.
Warner looked up, as did the others standing around the flight control console.
“Prove she’s safe to fly!” Brown admonished.
“We will! We will!” Warner countered.
Brown stood at the doorway for several seconds, his glare fixed on Warner.
“We will,” Warner said again, serious now.
Brown said nothing more. His expression communicated an array of sentiments.
Brown headed down a hallway that led out to the parking lot for Building 30. He pushed on the darkly tinted exterior door, realizing it was likely the last time he’d leave the historic building.
“So what, you fly here to Houston so you can watch the show from the big monitors,” a woman’s voice called at Brown’s back, “but then don’t stay around for the party? What’s up with that?” Pollard caught Brown just before he let the door swing closed.
“I just left the control room, Julie. Best I can tell, the confetti’s already hit the floor.”
Pollard walked right up to Brown. She had always respected him, but never feared him. “Cynical to the bitter end. Well, you’re wrong this time. The parties are going to go on well into th
e night, probably for the next week, actually.”
“No doubt they will,” Brown conceded. “I’m happy for you, really I am, you did a great job right to the end.”
“So what now? You have a look on your face that says you won’t be coming back. Do I need to say my final good-bye to you?” Pollard asked, her eyes never leaving Brown’s.
“How come you’re only the second person to ask me that question? You, and a friend of mine. No one else even asked.”
“Maybe we’re the only two people who know, or maybe the rest aren’t smart enough to realize what they’ll be missing. You’re not exactly the most forthcoming when it comes to your personal life. My guess is that you like a quiet escape, even though you may complain about it.”
Brown held his response, appeared to consider what Pollard had said. “I like you, Julie Pollard, you’re sharp in so many ways. And damn cute, too,” he added, aware but not caring that in some employee handbook he’d crossed the line. “NASA could use more like you.” If only I were a little younger, Brown thought. Pollard seemed like one of a scarce few who understood him. “My days here are done, Julie, I’ve done all I can.”
Pollard hesitated a moment then said, “Hey, uh, if ever I need someone to talk to, you know if I get in over my head here or something, can I call you?”
“Of course, anytime,” Brown replied. He reached into his sport coat pocket for a business card. He turned, placing the card against the wall and with a pen wrote down his number for her. “That’s my cell number, call me anytime.”
Pollard grabbed the arm of Brown’s sport coat. “Thanks for all your guidance over the years, you’re one of a kind,” she said with a soft, genuine tone. Then she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Brown noted Julie’s kiss was tender and measured. She first released her kiss, then, slowly, the arm of his sport coat.
Brown pushed the tinted door open once again and squinted into the hazy Houston sunshine. He turned back for a final look as he walked out to his rental car. Brown had been spared multiple good-byes, and as Pollard had assessed, that was just fine with him. When he reached the car, he took off his sport coat. He opened the rear door of the Buick and laid his coat across the back seat. He closed the door just as his cell phone began to ring.
“Ken Brown,” he said. In the instant before the caller spoke, Brown caught himself hoping it was Julie calling him already.
“So, I guess congratulations are in order,” Stangley said.
“Hey, you’re calling from KSC right?”
“Yeah, we’ll be hanging around here for another day or so. I’ve scheduled interviews with astronauts from both crews. You know, standard stuff. Oh, hey, by the way,” Stangley added before Brown had a chance to say anything, “I think I figured out why you emailed me.”
“You what?”
“The scoop, you know, why you e-mailed me the scoop.”
“And why is that, Stangley?”
“Well, you’ve always been outspoken about the foam-loss problem.”
“Yes, it’s something that I felt needed to be addressed. Now that Atlantis is back safely, well, it looks like there’ll be a stand-down to fix the foam problem once and for all.”
“Right, we figured that would happen. But thinking back to when you saw the hi-res films, and heard about the object floating near Columbia’s wing. You must have, I mean with your experience…” Stangley struggled to make his point. “Well, I’m guessing here,” he forged ahead. “Were you afraid the appropriate action wouldn’t be taken in time? Is that it? That the gears would turn so slowly that Columbia would run out of options. Isn’t that why you e-mailed me? To force them into action? You figured I could get the media involved and in turn get NASA managers to take action in time to save the crew.”
There was a long pause.
“Something like that, I guess,” Brown finally muttered reluctantly. “Of course, I’ll deny any such thing. You’ve deleted that email, I trust?”
“Of course I did. Don’t worry, there’s no story in it. It dies right here between you and me. We both got what we wanted. So when you get back here to Florida, give me a shout, we’ll grab a beer.”
“Sounds good, my flight back to Orlando leaves early tomorrow afternoon.”
Epilogue
Sunday, Feb. 16, 2003
“CAN I GET SOMETHING STARTED FOR YOU?” the Starbuck’s barista asked.
“Triple venti nonfat latte, no foam, extra hot, filled right to the top, and a classic coffee cake,” Stangley said. He went for his wallet. “Oh, and a New York Times, too, please.”
The cashier took his money, made change. Stangley walked to the newspaper rack, pulled out the third copy from the top, then sat where morning sunshine warmed a vacant corner table.
He laid the front page out across the table, smoothed the fold with one hand, while the other reached blindly into the tan paper bag and pulled off a corner of crumb topping.
His eyes were trained to skim, a skill developed from decades of discriminating between fluff and real content. His eyes darted across the front page, never stopping for more than a second. In those impossibly short glances, his brain registered several hits. What he saw made him want to yell out into the crowded coffee shop, proclaim that his premonition he’d had throughout the rescue mission had come true. He fought back an almost overwhelming urge to have a conversation with someone, anyone who’d listen. He decided that if the man seated next to him looked up, even for a second, he would be compelled to engage him in conversation.
I knew this would happen!
He read several headings:
“WMD INSPECTORS CONSIDER RETURN TO IRAQ”
“PRESIDENT: MILITARY SCALE-UP ON HOLD”
“Triple Venti non-fat latte,” the barista called out while setting Stangley’s drink on the bar.
Stangley got up to get his latte, and then raced back to his table. His eyes settled back on the banner headline, to the article he wanted to read first.
NAVY MISSILE DOWNS COLUMBIA
Washington, D.C.
SHORTLY BEFORE SUNSET Sunday, the USS Lake Erie sortied from its balmy home port of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, and sailed to a point not far off the island of Kauai, Hawaii. From there Lake Erie, the Ticonderoga-class Aegis-equipped guided missile cruiser, fired upon and directly hit Space Shuttle Columbia, completely destroying what was America’s first reusable spaceplane.
Five days earlier during NASA’s dramatic rescue mission, airlock problems forced Columbia’s commander and pilot to jettison Columbia’s sidehatch and exit the spacecraft through the sidehatch opening.
“We made several attempts to contact Columbia since the rescue mission ended,” NASA spokesman Gerald Conner told a small group of reporters late Sunday night. “Unfortunately, her computers did not respond.”
Conner explained how Columbia’s open sidehatch had caused the delicate electrical components and instrumentation on Columbia’s flight deck to be exposed to the extreme high and low temperatures of space, making the space vehicle unresponsive.
“Fortunately,” Conner added, “the DOD (Department of Defense) provided NASA with a solution for vehicle disposal that effectively eliminated the possibility that debris could fall on inhabited areas along Columbia’s orbital path.” NASA’s plan had been to perform a remote de-orbit burn of the vehicle into the Pacific Ocean once Atlantis had landed safely.
For the past several years, the Lake Erie has served as the test bed for the Navy’s still-underdevelopment Sea-Based Midcourse Ballistic Missile Defense System.
“Initially there was some question as to whether or not the system could be used for this application,” Kale Stratton, a spokesperson for the Navy, said. “Unlike an incoming missile, Columbia had no heat signature that a defensive missile could use for targeting.”
Because Columbia did not pose the threat of an inbound enemy missile, or the time constraints imposed by a live target missile, the Lake Erie was able to track Columbia for hours before firing its missi
le.
“We were able to study the target in new ways and gather valuable data,” Stratton said. “But as soon as the assignment was issued and confirmed, the ship’s onboard computers began working to create a firing solution. The computers determined the direction, altitude, and exact time to launch the missile in order to intercept Columbia.”
Using a vertical launch system, the Lake Erie fired an SM-3 missile, a three-stage rocket fitted with a kinetic warhead. Instead of using explosives to destroy its target, the kinetic warhead simply rams into its target, releasing sufficient energy to obliterate the intended target.
The successful downing of Columbia not only helped NASA wrap up its rescue mission, but it also provided the Navy with valuable data for further development of its evolving missile defense system.
Bibliography
These references may help the interested reader to learn more about the Columbia Accident, the inner workings of NASA, the details of the Shuttle Transportation System, and finally, what it’s like to orbit in space from an astronaut’s perspective.
Columbia Accident Investigation Board Final Report Volumes I-VI
nasa.gov
Chien, Philip. Columbia Final Voyage. The Last Flight of NASA’s First Space Shuttle. New York: Praxis Publishing Ltd., 2006.
Harrigan, Stephen. Challenger Park. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006.
Husband, Evelyn. High Calling: The Courageous Life and Faith of Space Shuttle Columbia Commander Rick Husband. Nashville: Thomas Nelson Inc., 2003.
Jenkins, Dennis R. Space Shuttle: The History of the National Space Transportation System—The First 100 Missions. Minnesota: Voyageur Press, 1992, 1996, 2002.
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