Burnout: The Mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281, Page 3
Stephanie Osborn
Just then, as if conjured by Anders' thoughts, an elderly Korean man tottered out into the dark street.
"SHIT!" Anders exclaimed, hitting the brakes hard and desperately praying that both he and the tailgater would manage to stop in time. The old man glanced up, seeing the approaching vehicle, and froze in panic. Everything seemed to go into slow motion, and Anders wrestled with his automobile to avoid the jaywalking pedestrian without going into a skid. The air filled with the sounds of tires squealing.
When it was all over, Anders' vehicle had come to a stop at an angle, in the wrong lane; the tailgater behind him missed him by inches as that car stopped straight, and the pedestrian scuttled back to the sidewalk. Fortunately, there had been no oncoming traffic at that late hour of the evening, or matters might well have gone ill. The tailgater eased by and continued on his way. Anders swallowed his heart back into his chest before beginning to maneuver his car back into his lane, where he continued on to his destination.
Chapter 3
As Crash watched the last of the sparks fade in the eastern night sky, his mind drifted back in time.
The experimental craft was coming down. No power on earth could prevent that now. Crash watched in horror from the control center, unable to turn away, as it nose-dived for Earth. Somehow, though, some part of Crash's brain kept him speaking coherently, talking his buddy through efforts to control the runaway bird.
"Jet, get your smash up…"
"Trying… Crash," Jackson gasped into the comm, fighting the g-forces as well as the damaged craft.
"Good job, good job. Get ‘er nose up," Crash instructed, examining the craft's descent with a practiced eye. "Little more… little more…"
"Damn hydraulics. There… that… enough?" Jet's panting was audible as he wrestled the recalcitrant controls.
"Yeah, buddy, that oughta do it. Can you hold ‘er there and still trigger the eject?" Crash wondered, apprehensive for his friend.
"Think… so…but… I can… hold it… get ‘er down smooth…"
"NO, Jet!" Crash shouted into the mike, desperate to talk Jackson out of that idea. "It's not worth it, pal. She's comin' down the hard way whether you hold it or not. You got next to NO control surfaces, and NO LANDING GEAR. Get outta there while you still have enough altitude!"
The cool, calm voice of the colonel in charge of the project interjected then, sounding clearly over the comm. "Major Jackson, this is Colonel Lorentz. Eject. That is a direct order."
"Yes… sir…"
Thank God, Crash mouthed absently, his eyes still glued on the crippled bird. The colonel was a good man. He cared about those mechanical birds, had once been a pilot himself, but he cared more about his people than about the machines they flew. Crash tensed for the distant sound of the ejection pyro.
He heard it--and something else: The sound of Jet's scream, high pitched and pain filled, cutting off mid-sound as the ejection seat severed the comm and took him away from his aircraft. Crash cringed despite himself, wondering what, exactly, had happened, and how serious Jackson's injuries were.
Crash's eyes snapped to the small black speck that hurtled from the experimental, as he steeled himself against the sights and sounds of the aircraft as it obliterated itself on Mother Earth, and watched the white canopy of Jet's parachute billow in the wind as it drifted down. He keyed the mike.
"Colonel, Major Murphy. Permission to--"
"Go, Crash," came the quiet reply. "See to it he's properly taken care of, and report his condition back to me."
"Wilco, sir," he replied, gratified.
And Crash was off, leaping into a waiting Jeep and flooring it across the dry lake bed, toward the descending ‘chute.
He pulled up in a cloud of dust beside the ejection seat at the same time as the emergency vehicles. Jet, still strapped in, stared up at him--or rather, his dark tinted visor did. He clutched his left wrist. Crash dropped to his knees and peeled off the helmet and O2 mask, to reveal Jet's eyes, large and dark in his drawn white face.
"Hey, buddy," Jet gasped, managing a weak grin. "Here's a lesson for ya, a damn important one: Never, ever hang onto the stick once the pyro triggers."
"Busted?" Crash asked, shocked, as he stared at Jet's wrist.
"To hell and back." He stared up at Crash, and Crash knew what he was thinking, because it was what they were both thinking: Was Jet's career as a test pilot over?
"Don't worry, Major," one of the medics reassured them just then. "We'll get ya patched up to fly again. Got my word on it…"
* * * *
The front yard of the comfortable two-story ranch house was deathly silent as the seven stood watching the last bright sparks sputter out in the dark heavens.
"Oh, dear God," Tracy whispered, horror stricken. "Scotty was the payload commander… and Carrie… and Pete…" Tears began to fill her eyes as reality set in. "They're… they're gone…"
"Dammit, Jet," Crash murmured, forehead creased in pain, "we made it all the way through ‘Nam together… then through test pilot training at Pax an' Edwards… now… this."
Ham snapped the cell phone closed and handed it to Crash. "You think this is any less dangerous?" he all but barked, his pet peeve having been triggered. "I figured y'all to know better. Hell, everybody thinks space flight is just routine these days. But think about it: Flinging seven human beings, on top of thousands of tons of high explosives, into an environment where they wouldn't survive a fraction of a second without layers and layers of protection, and bringing them back in a ship that comes screaming through the atmosphere at high Mach--when you look at it that way, you quit taking it for granted." Ham's voice was taut, serious.
Crash nodded agreement with a resigned sigh. "You're right, of course, Ham. We do a damn good job keeping these guys and gals safe. You know, since 1960, there's only been… what? Apollo One, Challenger … and now Atlantis. We bust our butts, but I know as well as you do that space exploration is never gonna be a hundred percent safe--no exploration of the unknown ever is. But, Ham, it's the complacency, the attitude of routine, that's the killer. That's the real reason I got out. I just got tired of fightin' it. When it gets into the general public, it's hard. When it gets into the politicians an' bureaucrats, it's even harder. But, dammit, if it ever gets into the Agency, we might as well all hang it up." Crash sighed again, as all too vividly he recalled why he had retired from NASA.
Hamilton replied softly, "We may be doing that anyway, now… once the media gets a hold of this. Come on, Tracy. You know the drill."
"Yeah. Let's go, honey," Tracy told Bob. "I've gotta get back to Houston, in reach of the MCC--" she glanced apologetically at Sally, "Mission Control Center--and at least check in. Sorry to break up the party, Crash."
"I'm about to break it up in a big way," Ham said as he helped Elaine gather her things. "This is unprecedented. Crash, they want you to come in, too. Independent investigator. The entry phase expert."
"How did I know that was coming?" Crash sighed into the darkness, wanting only to be alone with his grief for awhile. "Okay, Ham. I'll stow everything here and bring it on in," he capitulated with reluctance.
"Fine. Meet you at the Flight console."
* * * *
When Crash was escorted into the Front Room of the MCC, he ran headlong into a scene that only deepened his sense of unreality and depression. The flight controllers were in shock. Most of them had worked closely with the crew members for at least the last several years, and were in various stages of exhaustion, denial, and grief. The soft sound of men and women weeping permeated the rooms in the MCC. PAO had immediately discontinued live broadcast on the NASA Select channel as soon as an off-nominal situation had been realized; the windows into the observation area at the back of the control room had also been closed, and the controllers could give vent to their emotions in relative privacy. "Suits" wandered among the flight controllers, mission management putting aside their own grief for the time and going about the business of conducting discree
t interviews with various console positions and gathering information on the nature and extent of the disaster. Other personnel searched systematically through the entire control center, confiscating console logbooks and other pertinent documentation, and locking down computer accounts so that potentially valuable information couldn't be inadvertently lost.
"Last time I saw the MCC in this much confusion was in ‘86," Crash murmured to Ham as he walked up to the Flight Director's console.
"That's because it was the last time we had a disaster of this magnitude," Ham replied, grim-faced.
The retired flight controller looked around for familiar faces. "Where's Freddy?" Crash suddenly asked with concern.
"Capcom is… in the men's room," Steve Greggs, the Entry Flight Director, told him. "He… well, he and Carrie were gonna… he'd just given her the ring… he's not in… good shape. Not in good shape at all."
"Damn," Crash sympathized. "Yeah. I copy. He's not--?"
"No. George is in there with him. We didn't leave him alone." Greggs nodded decidedly.
The men stood around the console, silent, at a loss.
"You lost a buddy on this one, too, didn't you, Crash?" Greggs finally mustered voice enough to ask him.
"Yeah… the commander, Jet Jackson. Jet was my pal from our Air Force days. They never would let us fly pilot and GIB together, though. Something about the call signs ‘Jet-Crash' bein' a real bad combination…" Crash smiled fondly in bittersweet remembrance.
Greggs chuckled once in response, then sobered, feeling awkward. "Sorry…"
"Yeah. Me too," Crash told him, hollow voiced, then glanced away. "Well, I'm supposed to be one of the investigators here, so I guess I better start investigatin'," Crash noted. "What's the word?"
"Atlantis came down in the Gulf, Crash," Ham told him then. "Roughly 250 nautical miles east-southeast of Galveston Bay. T-38s have already overflown the area, but it's too dark to see much. Recovery ships are en route under full steam; they're expected on site by daybreak. They'll send divers down, maybe attempt a rescue."
"Any chance of getting anybody back okay?" Crash said in surprise, as hope rose inside.
"You want me to be realistic?" Greggs responded, shaking his head. "Just following protocol at this point."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so," Crash mumbled, remembering the searing white fireball in the heavens. "So we play the waiting game?"
"Yep," Ham said. "GNC's over there. You can go start with the questions…"
* * * *
Thirty-six hours later, Crash was boarding an early morning commercial flight at Houston's Hobby Airport, en route to Huntsville, Alabama. The first pieces of wreckage had been recovered and were being taken to the Marshall Space Flight Center for analysis. Hopefully the flight operations recorder would be located soon, and the orbiter's status during the critical re-entry comm blackout could be determined. Meanwhile, Crash had copies of the GNC, Trajectory, Pointing, Flight Dynamics Officer, Track, Entry Support, and Navigation console log books for review, and copies of the exo-atmospheric telemetry as well.
He spent the flight time, as well as the layover in Memphis, reviewing the log books and launch video, to no avail. There was absolutely nothing in the logs or any of the video camera angles to indicate an off-nominal flight condition in either the insertion, or the final hours of the flight. By the time he had finished reviewing the last twelve hours of each log book, he had arrived at Huntsville International, and it was time to get a rental car and head into MSFC. The rest of the log books, and the telemetry, would have to wait.
Despite the bright, sunny day, traffic in and around the field center was practically nonexistent. Looks like a ghost town around the center, Crash thought with a sigh. Not surprising: The Marshall Payload Ops Control Center had been in charge of the Gaia-1 payload, and these guys had known the crew just as well as the folks in Houston had. The roads may be empty, Crash noticed, but the church parking lots sure are full…
Crash checked in at Gate 9 and parked, heading straight in to Security. Security, in turn, notified his point of contact in Building 4203.
"Hello there, Crash," Jack Woodard's voice sounded over the phone, as the security officer began processing Crash's car pass and electronic key card. "Good to hear from you again."
"Yeah, Jack, same here. Sorry it had to be like this."
"Yeah. Listen, Crash, I'm sorry about Jet."
"Thanks, Jack," Crash sighed, "but he knew the risks."
"Yeah, but that doesn't make it any easier for those of us left behind. Marshall is pretty much at a dead stop right now. Well, except for the high bay receiving the debris. They're running around the clock on overtime."
"I can imagine. Just like last time?"
"Yup. Reconstruction's underway in Building 4619. Soon as they get you processed through, head on over there. I've got a meeting with the Center Director in a few minutes, then I'll try to meet you there," Jack said. "But don't hold your breath waitin' for me."
"Lucky you," Crash said ruefully. "I can guess what that'll be about. Glad I got out before I reached your GS level."
"You always did hate dealing with upper management," Jack responded, amused.
"Nah, upper management's fine," Crash replied, unconcerned. "Wouldn't be talkin' to you if that was the case. I just never trusted all that high level bureaucracy."
"Well…" Jack began in a strange tone, then abruptly broke off. "I'll see you at the high bay in a couple of hours."
* * * *
Crash held the key card to the touch pad, waited until he heard the click, then entered the small white locker room. Once inside, he donned a disposable paper suit, booties, hair cover, hard hat, and gloves, putting it all on over his khaki chinos and red polo shirt. Then he headed for the clean room area of the high bay beyond, pressing his feet onto the sticky floor to clean the bottoms of the booties, and passing over the air blower to remove any loose dust and dirt from his person as he traversed the airlock entranceway. Once inside, he stopped, overcome by a powerful sense of déjà vu.
Twisted, scorched wreckage lay scattered, seemingly at random, across the floor of the cavernous, but meticulously clean, white, bay. The apparent chaos was deceptive, however: The detritus was being assembled with care like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Crash watched as the huge yellow crane that ran across the ceiling skillfully maneuvered a large piece of debris into position.
"Damn. Challenger 2: The Sequel," Crash whispered, paling. "Thought I got outta this."
"Hey, Murphy," a booming voice echoed across the gigantic chamber, "‘bout damn time you showed up!"
"Hi, Mitch!" Crash met the stocky blond man halfway, clapping him on the back, as glad for the diversion from morbid thoughts as he was to see his old friend. "How's it goin', pal?"
"Depends, I s'pose," Guy Mitchell, director of the Materials and Processes Lab, responded. "Mary an' the kids are great. My oldest just started at Vandy. Double-E. But if you're talkin' about work, well… this kinda work I could do without."
"Know what ya mean…" Crash glanced around the high bay again and sighed. "Well… what have we got so far?"
"Hunk o' the port side wing here, some pieces of fuselage down the center, most of an OMS pod in the far corner. Over there's part of the starboard payload bay door. I've got a team back there in th' back trying to reconstruct the empennage and the rest of the tail section of fuselage, but we're missing part of the vertical stabilizer. They're still fishin' the Gulf for the rest of it." Mitch pointed around the bay as he spoke.
"Flight ops recorder?" Crash queried.
"Not yet. Divers are pushing hard for it, though."
"PAO put out the beachcomber request yet?"
"Just issued in the last hour. But you know how much good it did on Challenger. Everybody wants a piece of shuttle wreckage for a souvenir." Mitch sounded disgusted. "Worse than a bunch of damn gawkers at a traffic accident."
"Yeah. But we still got some turned in." Crash tried to be encouraging.
"No. Hey, listen, Mitch… have they… found any of the crew yet?" Crash avoided looking at his friend.
"Yeah, Crash." Mitch's voice was subdued, and he turned his attention to the white paper booties on his feet. "I heard they found somebody this morning. Didn't hear who, though. Takin' ‘em to Houston, gonna have the flight surgeons help the coroner ID ‘em…" He shuffled his feet.
"OK," Crash nodded sad acceptance. "Guess I'll check in with Ham after I get settled in the hotel tonight, then."
"Hey, Crash, got an old… er, friend of yours workin' this," Mitch told him then, his tone indicative of warning.
"Oh? Who?" Crash's ears perked up, and he turned, catching the hint.
Guy Mitchell pointed across the bay at a shapely brunette in a clean suit overseeing the tail reconstruction. "Lisa Stephens."
* * * *
Crash relaxed into the navy satin clad pillows, sighing in contentment, as Lisa rose from the bed, shrugging her black silk robe over her matching lace negligée before crossing the room to the silver ice bucket. She poured a glass of Moet, then walked back to the bed, sitting down close beside him.
"Here you are, darling," she murmured, holding the glass to his lips. He sipped the champagne, then smiled at her, putting his hands on her hips to tug her closer. She smiled in return, setting the glass aside before leaning down to kiss him. "What a wonderful celebration, just the two of us."
"Celebration?" Crash asked, puzzled.
"Of course, sweetheart," Lisa answered with another smile. "I thought you knew. They announced the D.C. position today. I'll be heading up the new department. We have two weeks to move."
Crash sat up straight, contented good humor vanishing like fog in a firestorm. "Dammit, Lisa, did you hear anything I told you, the other day?! I am not interested in that kind of shit! I don't want to move to D.C., and I'm getting out of the damn SPACE PROGRAM!"
