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

to pure oxygen if shortness of breath, headache or fatigue become acute.

“So, with all that in the equation, the crew can be sustained until the morning of 15 February. That would be an MET [Mission Elapsed Time] of thirty-one-and-a-half days.”

“We’ll never make it!” came a voice from three rows in, but Senca did not see who it was.

“We have to make it—we, they, have no other option,” Senca replied to no one in particular.

Comments shot from every direction in the room, but Senca let it happen, pausing like a physician after imparting bad news to a patient.

“As you know,” Senca said loudly into the mike, wrangling the group back to order, “Atlantis is scheduled for March 1, which means her prep needs to get moved up 14 days.”

Senca advanced to the next slide, which showed the new timeline.

“We’re passing around Atlantis’s revised timeline now so you can follow along with me. It outlines how events will be cut or modified from the usual preparation timeline. We’ve consulted with the various departments to see how each process could be shortened. Remember, this is a preliminary plan, and is subject to change.”

CAIB Report Vol. II, Appendix D.13, In-Flight Options Assessment, page 404

Senca moved out from behind the podium and walked into the 10-foot-wide semicircle of empty space that separated the Mission Management Team from the audience of engineers. As Senca moved about, he was aware everyone was with him now, ready to hear what else he knew about this plan for Columbia’s crew.

“I just want to say a few words before we review the timeline for rushing Atlantis to the pad.” Senca paused again, hoping the right words would come in time, that he would be able to sufficiently inspire these people.

“The hurried plan for Atlantis leaves almost no margin for error. If we ultimately can’t launch Atlantis, we’ll lose the crew, either by a failed attempt of the crew to reenter with a hole in Columbia’s wing, or by the crew suffocating inside Columbia by the afternoon of flight day 31.

“We need to start praying now that we have good weather when the launch windows open. We need to pray that everything goes right, that some sensor doesn’t cause us to scrub. We are going to be very tired people, mentally and physically exhausted. If we succeed, the rewards will be great not only for the astronauts and their families, but also for our mission here, our purpose here as an organization. We’re embarking on an ultra-marathon; it’s going to be a very long 20 to 25 days.

“Regardless of your religious beliefs, I think it’s fair to say we’re going to need God’s help on this.”

Chapter 23

Inside Columbia’s SpaceHab Double Module

COLUMBIA’S COMMANDER had just radioed Houston that the crew was about 30 minutes away from completing the Group C power-down on their mortally damaged spacecraft. The mid-deck and flight deck had taken on a dull, eerie, abandoned look and feel. Lighting had been cut to the bare basics. The normal level of light that had bathed the interior of Columbia, something all seven astronauts had become accustomed to over the past five days, was now considered a luxury.

There would be no further luxuries aboard Columbia.

Jan was alone now in the SpaceHab double module finishing with the power-down of the onboard laboratory that occupied Columbia’s payload bay. Her procedure list for the power-down outlined the specific order in which each piece of laboratory equipment should be turned off. The last item was SpaceHab’s general lighting. Even a partial power-down of the SpaceHab lighting now might cause her to make errors as she attended to the vast array of scientific equipment.

Nothing could be missed—no power supplies left consuming, no hard disk drives left spinning.

Hundreds of millions of dollars had been spent. Countless man-hours had been required to prepare 90 experiments for the mission. More than 70 international scientists anticipated the return of ground-breaking data.

The entire laboratory was minutes away from a total loss.

She started at the forward bulkhead, then moved aft along the port wall of SpaceHab. Every square inch was covered by a machine faceplate, a data patch-cord or a Post-it note. For each experiment, she first terminated the module’s data downlink to ground, and then cut the machine’s power. Whatever data had been contained within those devices was forever lost. She imagined an “available power” meter rising slightly with each switch she clicked, with each machine she killed.

Man over machine.

She grabbed the equipment rack mounted handles, carefully guiding her floating body through the spacecraft to each machine for power-down. As she went, she would reach down with sock-covered feet to grab a pair of loops. The entire floor of the SpaceHab module was fitted with foot loops, which were oriented in pairs that alternated by 90 degrees in their placement, allowing convenient positioning relative to SpaceHab’s interior.

As she turned the machines off one by one, she watched the panel indicator lights fade toward the darkness of death and listened as their power-hungry cooling fans coasted to a stop. SpaceHab was growing progressively quieter.

Jan periodically tore her clear plastic clipboard from her velcro-striped pants to check off completed items and to review what still needed to be done. Each time she checked the list, the unchecked box labeled “AEM - 3 modules” called out to her; but she moved on, deliberately ignoring this item.

She knew the combined power draw of the three animal enclosure modules (AEM) was over 100 watts, and that the sooner they were turned off, the better. But it was not just the AEMs’ power consumption she was ignoring—the lab animals in the AEMs were also using up LiOH, Columbia’s lifeblood.

The rats had to go.

In addition to powering down the AEMs, Jan would need to harvest six LiOH canisters housed in the stowage lockers on the port side of the forward bulkhead—the six canisters that