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

I can try to get the recording started…Okay, I think I’m set now…here goes.”

I lift my right hand up to the camera to try to find the record button, but instead I misjudge where the camera is and I hit it with my glove, causing a mild thud in my helmet, not what I wanted to do. It still feels okay though, gray-tape holding.

The Commander turned the camera’s power on before he closed the airlock hatch. We were going to start the recording then, too, but we weren’t sure how long Jan would be out here. We thought the tape or battery might run out before I could get out to the wing.

“Okay, I’m going to try to hit the record button now, let me know if you see the red light come on,” I say, calling up to the flight deck.

“We’re standing by, Steve, the Commander says.

I have my index finger sticking out, and I can feel something poking my helmet, but that’s about all I can feel.

My Commander watches me from the flight deck through a pair of binoculars.

“Steve, move your finger forward a little,” he said. “Towards us and I think…no…the other way…now go up…right there…okay now…you’ve got it.”

“Okay we can see the red light now, Steve.”

“The red light is on?,” I ask for confirmation.

“That’s affirm, Steve, you’re go for recording.”

“Houston, you copying this?” I ask proudly.

“Steve, we copy, go for recording.”

“Okay, Jan, I’m on my way.”

“Copy that, Steve,” Jan says, trying to be enthusiastic.

Chapter 16

On Columbia

JAN WAS IN POSITION. Actually, her hands and feet were, but not her stomach. As Steve was getting the camera working, Jan had climbed over the payload bay door and was now standing on Columbia’s left wing, close to the fuselage. Relative to Earth, though, she was standing upside down on Columbia’s wing. It wasn’t something her muscles or body were particularly aware of, but her brain, with its 36 years of this-side-up programming, knew things were not quite right. That huge, blue rotating planet overhead didn’t help with matters of orientation, either.

Even in her bulky spacesuit, she felt dwarfed by the size of the wing, a full 31-and-a-half feet from fuselage to wing tip. She was positioned to act as Steve’s ladder during his initial descent, and then for stabilization once he reached the inspection site. She had made two specific modifications to her spacesuit, one to help Steve, and the other to help Columbia. Around her left ankle was an adjustable equipment tether Steve would use to position himself at the leading edge of the wing. Covering her right boot were towels gray-taped in place to protect Columbia’s wing from inadvertent damage.

She was still tethered to the port slide wire, but to maintain her position on the wing she steadily gripped the payload bay door’s passive centerline-latch mechanism. The edge of the door met her at chest level. She was facing inboard, her back to the wing tip. Her right boot was on top of the wing, and her left boot was near the leading edge of Columbia’s left wing. Just below her boots, nestled inside the 5-foot-thick wing, was the left main landing-gear.

She was sure the vomit was coming; there was really no way to stop it at this point. She thought about what was coming. Breakfast. Dried apricots, shortbread cookies, a chocolate breakfast drink, and tea with milk and sugar, all on their way. All the self-talk in the world could not help her now.

Steve was halfway down the payload bay when it happened. The spasm began right below her waist tether. It traveled up to her mouth at light-speed, a self-propelled breakfast of sorts, up and out. Now of course, by the time one reaches his or her late thirties, the act of throwing up is not a new experience. But for Jan, this was her first time—first time throwing up with her helmet on.

With gravity missing, everything floats—the 89-ton orbiter, astronaut and spacesuit, any object not secured, a bite of food, liquids from a drink pouch, and vomit. If vomit floating off toward an instrument panel of a spacecraft sounds bad, it is bad; but usually an astronaut can contain it or redirect it before it shorts out any electrical equipment or causes any real problems. Vomit floating inside a helmet, however, is a much bigger problem. Since the astronaut cannot redirect the vomit with his hands—the faceshield doesn’t flip up like with a motorcycle helmet—he will have to direct where the vomit will stick inside his helmet through movements of his torso. This assumes of course that he or she has the presence of mind to do so.

Luckily for Jan, she did. She managed to keep most of it near the bottom of her helmet. Since oxygen enters the helmet from behind and above the astronaut’s head, she would not have to listen to a steady flow of bubbles coming up through the vomit. However, she would be with the smell—that head-down-in-a-toilet-bowl kind of smell—for at least another 75 minutes.

Chapter 17

On Columbia

I’M MAKING GOOD TIME down the slide wire. Jan is waiting, but apparently she’s barfed her helmet. I assured her that I’ll get this inspection done as quickly as possible. As I move aft, I try to hang it out wide of the payload bay doors to see the wing better, but the doors swing out a full 175 degrees, making it difficult to see the wing. Also, the area in question is black, not white like the upper surface of the wing, and that combined with less than optimal lighting, means I still can’t appreciate any damage.

When I finally arrive at my mark, Jan is facing me.

“Check this out,” Jan says, briefly lifting her mirrored sun-visor-overlay.

“Yuck! Columbia, Houston, ah,” I try not