Launch on Need by Daniel Guiteras (small books to read txt) 📗

The moderator motioned his way but he was not sure if it was for him or for the woman next to him, from the Houston something or other, looked like the Chronicle, but her press credential was twisted on its chain. He thought he heard the moderator say, “Go ahead, John.” My first name, how does he know my first… I’ve never met… don’t think I’ve ever seen him.

Eyes throughout the room were on Stangley now, and he could feel them.

“John Stangley, CNN,” he said, surprised as anyone to be hearing that name again.

Like it or not I’m back. And now it’s time to ask the question that needs to be asked. I can’t believe you people missed this one. You mean, no one thought to ask? Maybe I’ve been away longer than I thought. You ask important questions, like, will the astronauts have breakfast before or after the spacewalk? But no one wonders what will happen if… It couldn’t be more obvious. Well, step aside then, here come the big guns.

He directed his focus on Pollard, Chair of the Mission Management Team, figuring she’d be the one to answer.

“We’ve talked about the spacewalk in great detail today, and I’m glad we’ll have a sense of what the astronauts will be going through tomorrow. But what if the wing is severely damaged?” Stangley watched Pollard shift in her chair. “What if there is catastrophic wing damage and the damage is such that it will not support reentry, then what? Can you talk about what contingency plans are in place for such a problem?”

Stangley had hit it deep, near the center line, a perfect first serve, and it was surely an ace. He could feel that, too.

“Good question,” the woman next to him said out of the corner of her mouth.

Pollard was up.

She shifted again, gently cleared her throat, and performed a few well-known human stall methods until she was ready.

You can do this.

She thought carefully, knowing that almost anything she said would likely generate another 50 questions. She flashed back to yesterday’s Mission Management Meeting, when she told the group what needed to be done. She had written it on the whiteboard at the front of the room. A simple six-letter word.

R-E-S-C-U-E.

“We are currently performing an In-Flight Options Assessment for STS-107,” Pollard began. “In the event severe wing damage is found during the wing inspection EVA tomorrow…”

Chapter 13

Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday

Flight Day 5

Monday, Jan. 20, 2003

JIM HADLEY, AN ASTRONAUT HIMSELF, served as the communications middleman between Columbia and Houston. He was referred to as the CapCom, short for capsule communicator, a term left over from the early space-capsule days at NASA.

He was standing at his console in Mission Control now, reviewing his notes, trying to imagine what his friends, his colleagues in space, were feeling. He glanced at Allan Warner, who was seated at the console to his left. Warner glanced back, giving him a nod—Warner knew Hadley had a tough job, one that wouldn’t soon end.

Keep a steady voice, stay upbeat. The crew will be listening carefully to what I say—not just the words I use, but the subtle changes in my voice, Hadley told himself. He knew it to be true, the way astronauts develop a keen sense of listening. Even over the Comm channel, with its grainy crackle, astronauts had learned how to glean minute details about their particular predicament from the CapCom. It was as if the CapCom were secretly able to communicate with a crew without Mission Control becoming aware, as if a secret code were embedded in their speech, code perhaps only astronauts could hear.

“Columbia, Houston, for Jan and Steve, we know you’re just about ready to start your EVA. Ah, just wanted to give you a heads up. Remember, once you’re out of the airlock—Jan especially for you since you’re first out—make sure you watch out for the airlock-tunnel support brackets mounted to the payload bay floor. They’re just forward of the SpaceHab module. And also, remember to stay high enough so you’re clear of the radiators.”

Hadley empathized with Jan and Steve, having performed several EVAs himself. But he had never done so in a contingency situation, never without countless hours of preparation and training.

“This is Jan. We copy, Houston.”

“Jan, also before you leave the airlock, it’s imperative that you clip Steve’s retractable tether to your suit. As soon as you get to the port slide wire, connect your tether. Then we want you to disconnect Steve’s tether from your suit and reattach it to the slide wire.”

“Roger that.”

Tiny speakers, made small to save space and weight, filled their helmets with the CapCom’s voice. The sound was somewhat harsh, distorted slightly, almost breaking up at the edges. Despite the low fidelity, the voice inside their helmets imparted a certain companionship, and distraction, too, especially for Jan, who was becoming aware of a growing feeling of claustrophobia inside the tiny airlock. She started to tell herself that this was what she had trained for, but before she could finish the thought, the harsh reality hit: She had not trained for this spacewalk.

The voice of CapCom continued.

“About two-thirds of the way aft in the payload bay, you will find a space between the aft end of SpaceHab and the forward aspect of the FREESTAR experiment payload.”

Jan was now only half-listening to Mission Control. She had become aware of faint perspiration on her face, not because she could see it or touch it, but because the air inside her helmet felt suddenly cooler. Cooler is usually better, except that Jan realized the flash of heat she’d just felt was the kind that precedes the moment you realize you’re not feeling so well. If she could just get out of the airlock, get out into space, she thought—what astronauts refer to as “getting fresh air”—maybe she would feel better.

It