Riding Rockets

Just as the discussions on the GLS began to sound promising we were slapped with another problem. Some bozo in a light airplane had entered the closed airspace around the pad. We would have to hold until that plane was out of the area. The intercom seethed in our rage. We all simultaneously developed Tourette’s syndrome. Even Judy swore like a convict.Shoot the fucker down, was the general consensus. Previous shuttles had been delayed for the same reason, as well as for pleasure boats violating the offshore danger areas. Every astronaut thought these violators should be shot from the sky and sunk in the sea. Even astronauts enjoying a smooth countdown had no tolerance for idiots getting in the way of their launch, much less a crew as abused as ours.

As we waited, the LCC cleared the GLS problem. Now it was a matter of waiting until the light airplane exited the area. After nearly a seven-minute delay, its pilot pulled his head out of his ass and flew off. We all wished him engine failure. The count resumed.

Mike started the APUs at T-5 minutes. They all looked good. The sweep of the flight control system followed. It was also error-free.

At T-2 minutes we closed our helmet visors. Bob Sieck, the launch director, wished us good luck. Hank acknowledged, thanking him and his team for their efforts. I was glad I didn’t have to say anything at this point. My mouth was a desert.

T-1 minute. Hank reminded us, “Eyes on the instruments.”

T-31 seconds. “Go for auto-sequence start.” I made one last prayer for Donna and the kids…and again to God, “If you’re going to kill me, please do it above fifty miles altitude.”

T-10 seconds. “Go for main engine start.” The engine manifold pressures shot up.

T-6 seconds. For the second time in my life I felt the violence of SSME start. Two months earlier I had thought these vibrations were a guarantee for liftoff. No longer. Until there were goose eggs on the clock I would remain skeptical.

5…4…3…We finally entered new countdown territory.

2…1…At zero there was no doubt we had finally slipped the surly bonds of earth. As the hold-down bolts were blown, we were slapped with a combined thrust of more than 7 million pounds. A new wave of intense vibrations roared over us.

“Houston,Discovery is in the roll.”

“Roger, roll,Discovery. ”Discovery ’s autopilot was in control. Hank and Mike reached to their Attitude Director Indicator (ADI) switches and flipped them to change the mode of the ball. I watched Hank’s ADI reflectDiscovery ’s tilt toward the risen sun. If our ascent was nominal, the ADI switch would be the only switch touched until MECO…8½ minutes, 4 million pounds of propellant, and 17,300 miles per hour away.Please, God, that it be so. Having to use other switches could only mean one thing: something wasn’t nominal. My eyes fell on the contingency abort cue card Velcroed to Hank’s window frame. It detailed procedures for ditching the shuttle, which all of us knew would be death. NASA called all the other abort modes “intact aborts”—the orbiter and crew would be recovered “intact” either in the United States, Europe, or Africa. But they couldn’t bring themselves to call a ditching abort a “not intact abort.” Like sailors of old painting the decks red so the blood of battle wouldn’t shock a crew, NASA camouflaged the ditching procedures with the title “contingency abort.” One of the card’s helpful suggestions was to ditch parallel to the waves. Astronauts joked that the contingency abort procedures were just something to read while we were dying. For some reason the joke seemed funnier while standing at the office coffee bar.

Except for the noise, vibrations, and G-forces, the ride was just like the simulator, which is akin to the circus Human Cannonball saying, “Except for the earsplitting explosion, the G-forces, and the wind up your nose, it’s just like sitting on a case of unlit dynamite.” NASA would never duplicate this ride in any ground simulator.

“Throttle down.” We were forty seconds up and the vibrations intensified as the vehicle punched through the sound barrier. Everything was shocking the air…the giant, bulbous nose of the ET, the pointed cones of the SRBs, the orbiter’s nose, wings, and tail, the struts holding everything together. The interplaying shock waves were an aerodynamic cacophony and the engines throttled back to keep the vehicle from tearing itself apart.

Our seats wiggled and groaned under the stress. I was amazed by the flexibility of the machine. It reminded me of times in my childhood when I would slide down a bumpy, snow-filled arroyo in a cardboard box. Now, as then, I wondered how my cockpit could stay together through all the bouncing and shaking.