How to Astronaut

by Terry Virts

  That is such great advice for so many situations in life. Some problems simply must be solved or you can’t go on. If your brakes stop working in your car. If the landing gear won’t come down on an airliner. If you have a serious financial problem at work (you may not die, but the business might). Sometimes you need that sense of urgency—forget everything else and fix this problem, or it will be a very bad day.

  This same philosophy would apply if you were stuck in space. Let’s say, for example, that the rocket engine that is required to perform your deorbit burn wouldn’t light. Or the heat shield was fatally damaged so that you couldn’t survive the re-entry. Or the computers required to precisely guide the spacecraft through re-entry stopped working. There are a thousand scenarios that would cause you to be stuck in space, but the real question is, what would the astronauts do?

  Does Houston tell the astronauts about a potentially fatal malfunction? Does the crew try to fix the problem? Or end it all?

  The first scenario, a broken engine, is something that I trained for extensively, in both the shuttle and Soyuz. When you’re orbiting Earth you need to slow down in order to bend your trajectory down to the atmosphere, because once that happens friction and drag take over and you will inevitably return to the Earth’s surface. But unless you have a rocket engine that’s functioning, you will be stuck in orbit for years, if not centuries, before the tenuous atmospheric drag at orbital altitudes will eventually bring you down. No spaceship has enough supplies to last that long, so you’ve got the rest of your life to figure out how to get the rocket engines working.

  Typical tricks to restore function that astronauts use in simulated engine failures are cycling valves, computer systems, or electrical power supplies. If there’s a propellant leak, the first goal is to stop the leak ASAP by closing valves. If that doesn’t isolate the leak, you’re hosed, unless you can do an immediate deorbit burn on the remaining propellant, which means landing wherever your current trajectory takes you. It would be on a random location on Earth, which isn’t necessarily a great thing. Alternatively, if you have enough propellant left, you may able to return to the ISS before it all leaks out and then wait there for a rescue ship.

  An interesting corollary to the broken engine in orbit is a broken engine while on the Moon or Mars. There may be a possibility of repair, but that’s very unlikely. And unless there were another lander on the planet with you, or not too far away, you are also hosed. It comes down to how much oxygen you have and when the next vehicle arrives from Earth. The answers to those questions are probably not what you want to hear. Which would lead to everyone’s fear—stranded there, fully conscious of what’s going on, and no way to escape. You’d either have to wait around until your oxygen supply ran out or end it deliberately. I’m sometimes asked if we carried poison pills for a scenario like that. I never heard of any suicide pills. But when you’re in space, opening the hatch would take care of that problem very quickly. It’s a scenario that we all hope never comes to pass, but it was one that even President Nixon was prepared for.

  On STS-130 we spent the better part of two days inspecting Endeavour’s fragile heat shield. That was because of the painful lesson we learned after STS-107, when Columbia was destroyed after having her heat shield fatally damaged from foam debris during launch. This is because a spaceship just can’t survive heat that reaches 4,000 degrees without an intact shield. So if your heat shield is damaged, and you know about it before you leave the station, you have two options: Wait there for a rescue vehicle or try to repair it. There is no way to repair a capsule heat shield, but on the space shuttle we had an elaborate system of spacewalk repair techniques—foam gel to fill in damaged thermal tiles on the bottom of the orbiter and plates to cover holes in the critical leading edge of the wing. Those techniques were practiced on test spacewalks but thankfully were never used on the actual heat shield of an orbiter.

  On STS-107 a piece of foam popped off the fuel tank into 500-knot wind and hit the leading edge of the wing with incredible force, making a large hole in the critical composite thermal protection system. NASA knew about the foam strike and assumed that there was some damage to the heat shield, but after twenty years of flying the shuttle with only harmless foam damage, management decided not to take pictures of Columbia’s wing. They also assumed that there was nothing that could be done if there were serious damage.

  This was insane in my view; as an astronaut I would always want to know the status of my vehicle. And there was a shuttle on the launchpad, about a month away from being able to launch on an impromptu rescue mission. That mission would have been untested and dangerous. The Columbia crew would have had to turn off all equipment and spend a miserable month in the small crew area waiting for rescue. Another option would have been to do an impromptu spacewalk to try to repair the hole, which would have almost certainly been unsuccessful. But the alternative to trying these unlikely-to-succeed options was that we lost the crew. I saw the video of the foam strike a few days into their mission and brought it up with my management, and I was assured that it wasn’t a “safety-of-flight issue.” The biggest regret of my career was that I didn’t push the matter further, but as an unflown new guy, I just took their word for it.

  Although both the Challenger and Columbia accidents had very technical explanations, at the end of the day they were both management mistakes, made by some of the smartest people on Earth, who were very motivated for mission success. Those mistakes were not evil or intentional, but they serve as a cautionary tale of how even the best-intentioned and smartest leaders can be blinded to reality. I hope and pray we never have to do another accident investigation. But the reality is, spaceflight is dangerous and unforgiving. And sometimes you need to try something untested and bold in order to survive the harshest environment imaginable. Just ask Gene Kranz and his Apollo 13 team. You know, they should make a movie about that story. . . .

  Spacewalking

  Approaching the airlock to come inside after more than six hours outside spacewalking.

  The World’s Biggest Pool

  Training Underwater for Spacewalks

  They say the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory (NBL) is the world’s largest pool. I don’t know if they’ve gone around the world and measured all the other pools, but one thing is for certain: It is one big pool. It needs to be big so it can contain a mockup of the International Space Station, which itself is bigger than a football field. In years past, it also contained a simulated space shuttle and Hubble Space Telescope, and it currently houses an Orion capsule and even a helicopter trainer for Gulf of Mexico oil rig companies. But the star of the show is clearly the ISS, submerged in 40 feet of water. The underwater simulated ISS is only about half the size of the real thing; the vast majority of the Russian segment and about half of the station truss structure are missing because of size and expense constraints, but the modules there are exactly what we need for training.

  Astronauts from most of the world’s space agencies have been using the NBL to learn how to perform spacewalks since it first opened in 1996. Neutral buoyancy spacewalk training dates back to the first American to perform a spacewalk, Ed White, who had tremendous difficulty moving around and performing his tasks in 1965. After that arduous EVA (extravehicular activity, the NASA acronym for spacewalk), Buzz Aldrin came up with the idea of doing training underwater to learn to float and work in outer space. That idea enabled the last fifty-plus years of spacewalking.

  The underwater environment is different from space in several key ways. First, you’re not weightless; you actually hang in your EMU (NASA acronym for spacesuit, or Extravehicular Mobility Unit). Six-hour NBL runs always gave me two big bruises on my chest, where the spacesuit metal rings dug into my skin. Second, there is a righting moment, which means the water tends to flip you heads-up, making it difficult to stay on your side or upside down in the pool. Finally, it’s hard to move—really hard. You have to displace 400 pounds of water every time you want to move from point A to poi
nt B, and that requires a lot of strength, pushing constantly against the water. In order to stop you simply stop pushing, and the water stops you in a few seconds. In space it’s the opposite; the slightest pressure and you start moving, but you have to work to stop when you get to your destination. This leads to a bit of negative training, because the NBL encourages strong, continuous force to move around, but in space you need to move slowly and gently. It’s not too onerous, and bad habits can be quickly unlearned while in space with some mental concentration.

  The two sad astronauts in their fancy space underwear would sit in the briefing room while twenty trainers, safety divers, and technicians discussed the day’s plan, safety measures, specific tools and procedures, etc.

  The first step in spacewalk training is to learn your hardware. There are seemingly millions of pieces of equipment, most complicated, all named with an acronym or nickname that you’ve never heard before. After learning the equipment nomenclature, it’s time for a “one g” session, meaning tasks are performed in one g, on Earth, as opposed to zero g when you get to space. This occurs a few days before the actual underwater run, and the instructor reviews the tasks, procedures, and specific hardware that you will use. Next comes a scuba dive, where you and your spacewalking partner run through each task in normal scuba gear, before the big run in the EMU.

  As a new astronaut I found scuba sessions to be invaluable to get familiar with the work sites, to learn translation paths, and also to learn the best body position for our specific tasks. But when I was assigned to an actual spaceflight, I stopped them for one simple reason—I wouldn’t be able to do a scuba run on the ISS when tasked with a real spacewalk. I would have only virtual-reality software and conference calls with instructors on the ground to prepare for a real EVA, and I needed to get comfortable preparing for spacewalks without scuba gear.

  There is a very repeatable rhythm to game day. I always began at Shirley’s Donuts & Kolaches at 0545. For the eight years that I did NBL training, the same group of old men were at that doughnut shop in suburban Texas having breakfast, reading the paper, talking about high school football, or debating politics. We’d smile and give a polite nod, and I’d get my dozen doughnuts and dozen kolaches (a Texas breakfast foodgasm of a warm roll enveloping meat and cheese) and head off to the “house of pain,” my personal nickname for the NBL. Spacewalk practice was honestly about 96 percent pain and only a little bit fun. This breakfast junk food was my unofficial peace offering to the training team, as if to say, “Please go just a little bit easier on us today.” I don’t think it was ever successful, but the doughnuts were good.

  Upon arrival at the NBL, I would go straight to set up the day’s equipment, laid out poolside. It took about thirty minutes for equipment prep—the MWS (NASA acronym for the tool caddy attached to the chest of the EMU, which is the NASA acronym for spacesuit) needs to be configured with wire ties, RETs, waist tethers, PGT, trash bag, BRT, MWS-EE, AET, safety tether pack, etc. Plus configuring the specialized hardware for the task of the day: scoops, TMs, socket caddies, RPCMs, LEEs, ad infinitum. Did I mention you have to learn a new language of NASA acronyms before being allowed to spacewalk?

  Then it was time to head to the locker room to put on the first layers of the spacesuit. Just like launch, first came the diaper. Next a set of moleskin for hands and knees to prevent skin damage, something unique to the EMU. Then a basic set of thin long underwear in addition to the LCVG, a big bulky long underwear garb full of plastic tubes to carry cooling water to keep your body from overheating, similar to the launch suit. Except this LCVG was much bulkier and had personalized pads sewn in it to protect your specific body type in the spacesuit. Those pads could protect your shoulders, knees, hips, or elbows, depending on how much of the suit you filled out. Next, blue booties over your feet. A final trip to the bathroom, a five-hour energy shot, a few ibuprofens, and off to the prebriefing. The two sad astronauts in their fancy space underwear would sit in the briefing room while twenty trainers, safety divers, and technicians discussed the day’s plan, safety measures, specific tools and procedures, etc.

  Two hours after arriving at the NBL, equipment ready, prebriefing over, it was finally time to suit up. First, the obligatory photos with whatever tour group or celebrity happened to be there that day. Next, the torture of squeezing into the EMU. I’m quite certain medieval British monarchs would have been very interested in the design of this spacesuit, because it surely would have given the iron maiden stiff competition. My upper body is big and not very flexible, which meant I had to hyperextend my elbows to squeeze into that thing. It would always leave bruises, but after a few minutes of wrestling and choice words I would finally wiggle in, my head popping through the neck ring, and I’d make the same joke every time: “It’s a boy!” The best was yet to come, though: the helmet. As I said earlier, my head is huge and it required a painful technique to squeeze that helmet on.

  Once in the approximately 400-pound suit, a special crane would gradually lower me and my wingman into the pool, and the moment of entering the water was always interesting. It immediately felt warm, as the suit squeezed my body from water pressure, and my vision was instantly blurred due to refraction. Our safety divers would then drag their two spacewalk trainees through the water from the crane to the airlock, adjusting our suits with a series of weights and buoyant floats that would attempt to keep us neutral in the water, not rising or sinking, and basically heads up. This was more art than science; the astronaut and diver had to work together to get this critically important weigh-out right. Even a small imbalance in buoyancy would require constant effort to stabilize yourself, which would quickly exhaust even the most physically fit astronaut. The divers also had to deal with the oxygen hose from a tank on the surface to the astronauts underwater. In space the suit managed O2 and CO2 on its own, but on Earth the hose ran 100 feet or more to the topside of the pool.

  Weigh-out complete, the two astronauts (along with a team of three divers for each spacewalker) moved over to the ISS airlock to begin the run, where we were turned over to the instructors to begin the torture—I mean training. They talked us through each step, from egressing the airlock to moving to our work site on the simulated station exterior to getting our tools ready, etc. Everything was choreographed for maximum efficiency, because there is absolutely no time to waste on a real spacewalk. It’s dangerous outside and there are a lot of potential problems that could cause a spacewalk to go south in a hurry, so we used the NBL to make the real-day spacewalk as efficient as possible.

  A massive crane prepares to lift over 500 pounds of my body, spacesuit, and equipment into the NBL, our spacewalk training pool.

  Moving underwater was very different than moving in outer space. Underwater, it was extremely difficult to get moving and easy to stop, and you were always rotated to a heads-up orientation, none of which was true in space. Nonetheless, there were several invaluable lessons to be learned in the pool. First, the spacesuit is really uncomfortable and difficult to operate in. It’s big and bulky and vision is limited. Second, keeping track of tethers and equipment is a constant chore. There was always a safety tether (a long, retractable wire) connecting you with the station. If it ever broke and you let go of the ISS, you would have a small SAFER (NASA acronym for jet pack) to fly back to safety. There were also multiple equipment tethers to prevent your stuff from floating away and local tethers that were used to keep you in place at a work site.

  Keeping track of all of this was like herding cats while trying to hold on to a greased pig and counting backward from 100. In Russian. It’s hard to do physically and even more difficult mentally. Spacewalking is a difficult skill, and the NBL does a great job of helping astronauts master it before going outside on the real day.

  Another critical lesson was the importance of body position. If you could rotate yourself around to put the task right in front of your chest, you could probably get it done. If it was off to the side or above or below you, even the simplest t
ask would quickly become impossible because of the difficulty and pain of moving your arms or reaching your hands in that bulky iron maiden (aka EMU). Worse than being difficult, reaching or stretching your arms, especially overhead, was downright dangerous. Every year I was at NASA, an astronaut or two would get shoulder surgery for a torn rotator cuff suffered during a training run at the NBL. Our frail shoulders were especially susceptible to damage when upside down in the pool, because your entire body weight would rest on your clavicle, pressing on metal rings in the suit. Raising your arms up over your head could potentially result in permanent damage to shoulder ligaments. The good news is that as long as they caught the injury while you were still an active astronaut, NASA would pay for the surgery. Other than that, you would have to file a workman’s compensation claim and hope for the best. Injury potential, acute pain, and general discomfort were all good reasons to avoid going upside down in the pool if at all possible. Thankfully, this was not an issue in the weightlessness of space.

  Thanks to my fighter-pilot instincts to always sound cool on the radio,I calmly said, “Safety diver, you can take me back into the airlock.”

  During eight years of training at the NBL, I had some memorable runs. Several of them involved going into the truss of the station, an external structure made of pipes, bars, and wires that holds the solar arrays, which are attached more than a hundred feet from each side of the main part of the station. It was both fascinating and daunting to wedge myself and my 400-pound EMU inside that truss structure to work on something called an FHRC, a tombstone-looking, refrigerator-size contraption that allowed ammonia cooling fluid to pass from a stationary piece of the truss to a rotating piece. From the astronauts’ point of view, this was just one of a thousand black box components that we would potentially have to install and replace during our mission. The internal workings of these devices were not our concern; we just had to remove the old and install the new. A unique challenge of ammonia hardware was that it required special steps to install and remove fluid lines, which was a big part of the pool training. Once the bad FHRC was removed, a process that would take an hour or more, I would hand it off to my poor crewmate, hopefully without banging into about a hundred things that were strategically located to be easily banged into. He would then store the broken device and retrieve a new one to install.