Riding Rockets

Since I had first heard Jim Bagian and Sonny Carter reveal that Mike Smith’s PEAP had been turned on by Judy or El, I wondered if I would have had the presence of mind to do the same thing had I been inChallenger ’s cockpit. Or would I have been locked in a catatonic paralysis of fear? There had been nothing in our training concerning the activation of a PEAP in the event of an in-flight emergency. The fact that Judy or El had done so for Mike Smith made them heroic in my mind. They had been able to block out the terrifying sights and sounds and motions ofChallenger ’s destruction and had reached for that switch. It was the type of thing a true astronaut would do—maintain their cool in the direst of circumstances. “Better dead than look bad.” My greatest fear was that I would fail if I was ever faced with a similar disaster, that I would die as a blubbering, whimpering, useless coward, an embarrassment to my fellow crewmembers and, worst of all, it would all be captured on the voice recorder to be played in a Monday morning meeting.

The launch director’s voice put a stop to my depressing thoughts and pleading prayers. “Atlantis,the TAL weather is acceptable. We’ll be picking up the count.” There were audible sighs of relief on the intercom. Now…if onlyAtlantis would cooperate and keep humming along without a problem.

There was a short count by the LCC and the clock was released.

“Thirty seconds.”

Hoot reminded everybody to stay on the instruments. An unnecessary order. If a naked Wonder Woman had suddenly appeared in our midst, nobody would have been able to pull their eyes from the displays. Well…maybe I would have taken a quick peek.

“Ten seconds. Go for main engine start.” I wondered how many times I would have to do this before I could do it with a heart rate below 350 beats per minute.

The engine manifold pressures shot up. Fuel was on the way to the pumps.

Engine start. The now familiar vibrations of more than a million pounds of tethered thrust rattled me. I watched shadows move across the cockpit asAtlantis rebounded from the start impulse. When she was once again vertical, the SRB and hold-down bolt fire commands were issued. Seven million pounds of thrust rammed me into my seat. I was on my way into space for a second time.

“Passing 8,500 feet, Mach 1.5.”

We came out of the other side of max-q and the vibrations noticeably lessened.

“Atlantis,you are go at throttle up.”

“Roger, Houston, go at throttle up.” At Hoot’s call, I knew everybody was thinking the same thought. Those had been the last words heard fromChallenger.

“Ninety thousand feet, Mach 3.2.” Hoot gave the markers.

“P-C less than 50.” The SRBs were done. A flash-bang signaled their separation and we all cheered. Someone added, “Good riddance.” We wouldn’t know it until we were in space but the right SRB had already placed us in mortal danger…not because of an O-ring failure but because the very tip of its nose cone had broken off and hitAtlantis. The number-three SSME was also running sick, a fact we wouldn’t learn until after the mission. The inner-bearing race on its oxidizer turbo-pump had cracked. We were blissfully unaware of these two threats to our lives. The cockpit instruments were all in the green.

The rest of the ride continued smoothly. The sky faded to black while the flare of the sun painted the cockpit. We listened to the cadence of the abort boundary calls. With each call, we breathed a little easier.

“Here it comes, rookies…40…45…50 miles. Congratulations, Guy and Shep. You’re now astronauts.” They cheered and the rest of us added our own congratulations. I thought again of the ridiculousness of the fifty-mile altitude requirement. Guy and Shep had earned their wings as we all had…at the instant the hold-down bolts had blown.

Hoot’s calls continued. “Sixty-one miles, Mach 16…a little over 2-Gs.” We were paralleling the East Coast of America. No doubtAtlantis was generating some UFO reports. Even though the sun was up, the blue-white flare of our SSMEs would be visible all the way to Boston. We were steering for an orbit-tilted 57 degrees to the equator. Until launch that fact had been classified. But it was impossible to hide our orbit parameters after liftoff. Russian spy ships were most likely already sending our trajectory data to Moscow and their downrange radars would be picking us up as we came over their horizons.

“Twenty thousand feet per second and 3-Gs.” Under the G-load Hoot’s call was grunted.