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

workers listened intently to their well-respected leader, Jensen had told them they were facing the most intense, most critical work effort ever put forth by a NASA ground crew. “This,” he had told his workers, “has to be your best work, your best effort. There are enough technical reasons why we might not be able to rescue the crew in time, but let’s not add a preventable accident to the list of possible failures. Seven lives depend on us doing everything right. America is counting on us.”

Still, somehow, it had happened.

Jensen parted his hands so he could again see the incident report that lay on his desk beneath his elbows. He shook his head in disbelief as he scanned the page. Reading it over and over had not lessened the blow; his reaction was the same: Fuck.

He focused on the box marked, “Explain the nature of the accident or injury in your own words.” This was the part of the form an employee was required to complete following an accident.

He read again what the employee had scribbled: “While walking on the upper catwalk at the conclusion of my shift, carrying a five-gallon bucket filled with tools/supplies, I tripped and fell. When falling, I released my grip on the bucket handle. The bucket fell from the catwalk and apparently struck Atlantis’s left payload bay door. The bucket fell approximately 20 feet before making contact.”

“Can we still do it?” Jensen wondered aloud as he leaned back in his chair, clasping his fingers behind his damp fleshy neck. The entire rescue timeline hinged on the assumption that there would be no failures. And now, just four days into the 26-day timeline to launch, the first failure had occurred.

Will this be the incident that causes the crew to perish in space?

In 1985, Jensen was well aware, a similar mishap occurred. A worker dropped an object on an orbiter while it was being prepared for launch. Ground crews spent two weeks repairing damage caused by that accident.

We don’t have two weeks, he thought. We don’t even have two days! He thought of all the systems that might need to be rechecked as a result of the accident. Depending on where the orbiter was struck, this could include electrical lines, payload door operation, hydraulic lines and virtually everything in the payload bay.

Witnesses said the tools had scattered on impact.

Jensen rotated left in his chair to better view Atlantis’s workflow chart mounted on the wall. In doing so, he felt a twang of heartburn rip through him like a sword piercing his abdomen. This particular bout got his attention for its focused pain, but it was nothing new. He’d had terrible indigestion ever since the rescue mission was first announced. Best he could tell, he was weeks away from even thinking about seeing a doctor. He had so many things that needed his attention that when his body reminded him of his indigestion problem, the only response he could muster was, “Get in line.”

He looked back at his work-flow chart. “STS-300, Milestones to Launch.” According to the 3-by-4-foot chart, to stay on schedule Jensen and his crew needed to have Atlantis ready to roll out of the orbiter processing facility by Sunday, Jan. 26. That was less than two full workdays away. The OPF team had been given seven days to complete its part of the preparation. Now with five of the seven days spent, Jensen feared he was facing the mother of all setbacks.

He looked at the chart desperately, hoping to find an extra day or two he could carve from the already tight work flow, trim a little fat from the schedule. Maybe even a few hours. Did the shuttle really need to sit on the pad for 11 days before launch? Jensen knew the answer, of course. Yes, it did, and, besides, no other team would be willing to give up any of its days. Who could predict what other setbacks might be coming?

Jensen was the lead man in a relay race against time. He knew how relays worked—he knew, for example, that you weren’t supposed to drop the baton.

Then his phone rang. Oh, God, here comes the damage report, he thought. With the bad news only seconds away, he felt another spike of pain. The phone rang again and again. He finally reached for the phone with his left hand and touched the receiver with his fingers. Just then, a searing pain ripped through his left shoulder blade and out through his chest wall like it had been shot from a crossbow. Jensen flipped the receiver off the cradle in a last desperate move. It landed on its side, facing Jensen.

He knew he was in trouble.

His eyes flashed around his office walls and to the framed family photos that were neatly arranged on his desk. Was this his final life inventory?

There was another brief bolt of pain. His fists clenched and his legs straightened, extending in tetany. His desk teetered and rattled on its legs. He felt as if he were in the clutches of a giant tourniquet. The feeling lasted several intense seconds and was followed immediately by a sudden release, which left him slumped over, covering the blotter on his desk.

“Wally, you there?” asked the caller. “Good news—we just finished inspecting the payload bay doors…”

The line was void of any noise, any life.

“Hey, Wally?”

Chapter 38

BEFORE GETTING INTO BED, Stangley, who had always preferred a cold room when he slept, had set his hotel room air conditioner to its coldest setting. Once in bed, he wrapped himself in a top sheet and two blankets and pulled up the comforter well past his chest.

He’d fallen asleep to CNN’s news recap at the top of the eleven o’clock hour, nearly 40 minutes earlier, and now the TV served as the only source of light in the room, flickering and flashing against the walls in muted