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

His ship was going down.

He sorted through memories of his past missions, smiled as he remembered so many incredible days and nights spent in space. Nearly everywhere he looked, there was something that triggered a memory. He found small notes his crew members had written to themselves, important procedural things they did not want to forget during various experiments.

What a magnificent group of individuals trained so long and hard—they wanted to do good work, they had done good work.

He floated slowly through the mid-deck, allowing his fingers to glide along its various surfaces, admiring the fit and finish of his marvelous spacecraft. And then, he felt a chill as he came upon a crew photograph that was taken and printed aboard Columbia back on flight day three. The photograph had been taped to a locker by one of his crew before they headed off to Atlantis. Below the photo someone had written “Hail Columbia!” and they all had signed their names.

Twenty-seven days had passed since the crew photo was taken, certainly not the most days in space endured by an astronaut. Space-station astronauts had stayed aboard as long as six months. But these days aboard Columbia had been arguably the most difficult and harrowing days ever spent by man in space.

Before leaving their ship, the crew had agreed to use this particular photo for their farewell. As he examined the photo, the commander saw a similarity in their smiles and in their eyes: It was the look of unknowing. When the photograph was taken, it captured the faces of those who knew nothing of how their mission was about to change or the kind of physical and psychological challenges that lay ahead. The crew had no inkling of Columbia’s damaged wing.

The commander thought briefly that he might keep the photo as a reminder of how the crew, himself included, looked before their nightmare began. Instead, he took out his pen and added his name to the photo, re-taped it to the locker, and headed back to the airlock.

He finally felt ready to go home.

Chapter 69

In Space, Rendezvous Station

GARRETT FELT what he thought was a “hot spot,” a common hiker’s term to describe the first warning sign of a blister, developing on the inside of his left ankle. So while he waited on Atlantis’s work-stand, he adjusted his foot inside his boot. A simple turn of his ankle easily relieved the pressure and his concern quickly faded. Besides, he knew there were only two more Columbia astronauts to make the transfer to Atlantis. He and Mullen would be back inside Atlantis with the others, “feet up and champagne flowing,” they’d kidded each other, in an hour or so.

He looked up, saw that Mullen was in position with his end of the rope, poised for the transfer. Seconds earlier, Mission Control had announced over the comm loop that Columbia’s commander and pilot were suited, pre-breathe completed, and were waiting for Columbia’s airlock to finish its depress.

“Columbia, Houston, depress complete,” the commander said.

“Roger that, Columbia, open airlock when ready.”

“Copy, open airlock.”

Columbia’s pilot was nearest the airlock’s actuator arm, so he moved the lever to its stop, as far as it would go anyway, and then pulled on the external door to open the airlock to space. Nothing. The pilot grabbed the actuator arm again. Applied more pressure. Attempted to move it farther toward its stop. The arm gave a grinding half-inch. He tried the door again, tried to pull it down into the airlock. Nothing.

The CapCom heard the pilot grunting and struggling with the airlock door. Heard the pilot and commander talking about technique, about trying this versus that; the astronaut’s approach was calm and methodical. But the CapCom understood firsthand how quickly even slight frustrations encountered while in the confines of a space suit and airlock could flash into much bigger problems.

“Mullen, can you get over to the airlock?” the CapCom said.

“Copy, on my way.”

“See if you can’t help them from the outside.”

“Roger Houston, on my way.”

As Mullen maneuvered along the SpaceHab module to Columbia’s airlock, he began to troubleshoot the airlock in his head. Did something get caught in the actuator teeth? Did something from a space suit like a strap or belt, or a pant leg, get caught up in the mechanism? When he arrived, he retethered just outside the airlock.

“Okay Houston, gonna give it a try,” Mullen said.

Mullen tried various angles on the lever, braced his boots into the angle where airlock met the floor of Columbia’s payload bay. Within a few minutes, he could feel himself breaking into a sweat. Initially he was able to move the lever through at least 70 degrees. But with repeated attempts, the mechanism seized. Now he couldn’t move the lever at all. He knew this was a bad sign. The airlock actuator arm was designed to require only eight to ten pounds of pressure to unlock, and a maximum of 30 pounds to fully disengage the latches. Shit Shit Shit, he thought.

At Mission Control, concern was mounting. At the Flight Control console, Allan Warner sprang to his feet and challenged his engineers to explain how an airlock could so suddenly seize. There were no quick answers. “Did something get caught in the mechanism?” one of the engineers asked.

“Hell if I know. Figure it out!” Warner demanded. “Atlantis isn’t leaving without Columbia’s commander and pilot.”

When Julie Pollard overheard Warner’s troubled tone and the words “airlock” and “seize,” she looked away abruptly from a conversation she was only half-listening to anyway. She flitted for a moment like a small bird responding to a threat, then summoned her senses, feeling a superhero’s need to change into the “other” uniform.

“What have we got, Allan?”

“It’s Columbia’s EVA hatch, Julie. Damn thing won’t open.”

“They’ve tried from the outside?”

“Yes, it’s jammed. I need you to guide a tiger team through this.” Warner looked away, his face full of worry