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

there early, and he was not even sure why he had scheduled such an early wake-up call.

He just lay there on his back, hands under his head, savoring the early morning moment, letting his mind wander, until something took shape, floated to the surface.

“Columbia flight day eight,” Stangley finally said out loud, slowly, deliberately, and with the drama of a radio announcer. As he listened to the sound of his own voice flatten out against the acoustic ceiling above him, he found himself moved by his own words.

His first thoughts went to the crew.

He wondered how the astronauts could stay sane in their doomed spaceship, unable to actively participate or help in their own rescue effort. All that specialized training and high-tech equipment had been rendered useless. Their character was all that was left. He tried to imagine himself in their place, how he would deal with their situation—the inactive days, the waiting, the helplessness, the inability to exercise, the need to conserve resources, and the interminable dim lighting.

Muscles weakened further every day.

The first possible launch of Atlantis was still 16 days away!

In his mind’s eye he walked his body through a day aboard Columbia. He had the tools to fashion a terrific mental picture of an orbiter. He’d seen all the mock-ups, all the simulators; in fact, he was once allowed to enter Columbia’s flight deck during the post-Challenger accident stand-down, a privilege he treasured still.

Lying in his bed, he imagined being weightless, imagined the conversations he would have with crewmates and reading e-mails from loved ones. The tone of those e-mails would vary based on the latest news from the Kennedy Space Center on how Atlantis was progressing toward launch.

Twenty-five days would pass as slowly as a prison term.

As in prison, too, the three reconstituted meals would undoubtedly become highlights of the day, dividing the waking hours into equal thirds. Finishing dinner would mean solitary confinement was just a few hours away.

In his daydream of life in space, Stangley feared the nighttime most. He feared not being able to sleep, and being alone with his thoughts. That was what scared him most: the thought of being cut off from the rest of the crew for eight to ten hours while they were supposed to be sleeping. He imagined himself floating in space inside his sleeping bag, lights off, eyes open, wondering what NASA was keeping from him and his fellow crewmates.

Stangley imagined Columbia crew members floating wide awake in their sleeping compartments, wondering whether NASA engineers had already discovered something that would prevent a launch. Had the ground crews run into a problem in prepping Atlantis?

Let’s say they did discover Atlantis was a no-go for launch, Stangley thought, long before the consumables on Columbia were depleted. Would NASA then suggest they come in, anyway? Would the agency have them take their chances at Mach 25, knowing there was a hole in the wing?

Stangley was certain the crew would ask for it. They certainly wouldn’t just wait in orbit for the end to come.

“Rescue mission scrubbed, NASA/crew agree to attempt a landing, story at eleven,” Stangley muttered as he got out of bed.

Chapter 37

Kennedy Space Center, Florida

Orbiter Processing Facility

Columbia Flight Day 9

Friday, Jan. 24, 2003

“HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?” Wally Jensen questioned, his voice faltering with each word. He leaned forward in his office chair, placed his sausage-thick fingers over his wet face, and tried to wipe away the worry.

He let out a heavy sigh through his tobacco-stained fingers. The comforting scent raced to his brain on a neurologic fast track. God I need a cigarette, he thought.

He reveled in this quiet moment alone in his office, but knew it wouldn’t last long. He had a chance to think, time enough to imagine this was not really happening. Soon he would be briefed by the damage-assessment team. Then the frenzy of phone calls and emails would follow, relentless as telemarketers at dinnertime, demanding an answer. It was how it always went with an incident like this.

What the hell happened?

He was only months away from retirement. He’d spent 27 years at the Kennedy Space Center, the past 17-and-a-half as chief supervisor for orbiter processing. He had been at peace with the fact that he would retire before the space shuttle program completed its life cycle, before the International Space Station was finished.

He had not expected a final defining mission for his career with NASA, or some great event that would serve as a send off. He expected no fanfare at his commencement. Instead, the commendations, awards and framed photos that covered his office walls would mark his years and would serve to remind him and others of his accomplishments and contributions to NASA.

Then had come this problem with Columbia, and he had realized his career might end with a crescendo, after all. In fact, the more he had thought about it, the more certain he was that the rescue mission was going to make his career. He would retire as the chief supervisor responsible for getting Atlantis ready for the rescue mission. His work would serve as a showcase for how to get the work done; it would be a perfect management model. And it was all going to happen on his watch. He had even imagined himself profiting nicely from speaking engagements. Wally Jensen’s “How to Get the Troops to Rally for a Cause” would fill convention halls.

His retirement years had finally looked promising.

And now this!

How could this happen?

Human error. It was as simple as that. Always the least-controllable variable.

The safety signs were virtually everywhere throughout the facility. You couldn’t turn a corner in the orbiter processing facility without being reminded that safety came first. The workers had all attended a mandatory pep talk safety meeting just five days earlier. Jensen had given the talk himself and had stressed the importance of no mistakes, no accidents.

As the