Part 15 (1/2)
The ominous swirl had begun to take shape over the eastern Caribbean days before. It had started as a short wave trough aloft, a gentle undulation of clouds formed from the evaporated waters of the sun-baked equatorial sea. b.u.t.ting up against a bank of air from the north, the clouds had begun to rotate, spinning a calm eye of dry air. Now it was a definite spiral that seemed to grow with every new image transmitted by the geostationary GOES weather satellite. The NOM National Weather Service had been tracking it since its birth, had watched as it meandered, directionless, off the eastern end of Cuba. Now the newest buoy data was coming in, with measurements of temperature, wind speed and direction. This data reinforced what the meteorologists were now seeing on their computer screens.
It was a tropical storm. And it was moving northwest, toward the tip of Florida.
This was the sort of news shuttle flight director Randy Carpenter dreaded. They could tinker with engineering problems. They could troubleshoot multiple systems failures. But against the forces of Mother Nature, they were helpless. The primary concern of this morning's mission management team meeting was a go-no-go decision on deorbit, and they had planned for shuttle undocking and deorbit burn in six hours' time. The weather briefing changed everything.
”NOAA s.p.a.ceflight Meteorology Group reports the tropical storm is moving north-northwest, bearing toward the Florida Keys,” said the forecaster.
”Radar from Patrick Air Force Base Nexrad Doppler from the National Weather Service in Melbourne show radial wind velocities of up to sixty-five knots, with intensifying rain. Rawinsonde balloon and Jimsphere balloon both confirm. Also, both the Field Mill network around Canaveral as well as LDAR show increasing lightning activity. These conditions will probably continue for the next forty-eight hours.
Possibly longer.”
”In other words,” said Carpenter, ”we're not landing at Kennedy.”
”Kennedy is definitely out. At least for the next three to four days.” Carpenter sighed. ”Okay, we sorta guessed that was coming. Let's hear about Edwards.” Edwards Air Force Base, tucked into a valley east of the Sierra Nevada in California, was not their first choice. A landing at Edwards delayed shuttle processing and turnaround for the next mission because the shuttle would have to be transported back to Kennedy, piggybacked to a 747.
”Unfortunately,” said the forecaster, ”there's a problem with Edwards as well.” A knot had formed in Carpenter's stomach. A premonition that this was the beginning of a bad chain of events. As lead shuttle flight director, he had made it his personal mission to review any mishap on record and a.n.a.lyze what had gone wrong. With the advantage of hindsight, he could usually trace the problem backward, through a succession of bad but seemingly innocuous decisions. Sometimes it started back at the factory with a technician, a miswired panel. h.e.l.l, even something as big and expensive as the Hubble Telescope lens had started off screwed up from the very beginning.
Now he could not shake off the feeling that he would later think back to this very meeting and ask himself, What should I have done differently?
What could I have done to prevent a catastrophe?
He asked, ”What are the conditions at Edwards?”
”Currently they're looking at a cloud ceiling at seven thousand feet.”
”That's an automatic no-go.”
”Right. So much for sunny California. But there's the possibility of partial clearing within the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours. We might have reasonable landing conditions if we just wait it out. Otherwise, it's off to New Mexico we go. I just checked MIDDS, and White Sands looks good. Clear skies, head winds at five to ten knots. No adverse weather forecast.”
”So it's down to a choice,” said Carpenter. ”Wait till Edwards clears up. Or go for White Sands.” He looked around the room at the rest of the team, seeking opinions.
One of the program managers said, ”They're fine up there right now. We could leave them docked to ISS as long as we need to, until the weather cooperates. I don't see the necessity of rus.h.i.+ng them home to a less than optimal site.” Less than optimal was an understatement. White Sands was little more than an isolated landing strip equipped with heading alignment cylinders.
”There's the matter of getting the corpse back as soon as possible,” said Todd Cutler. ”While an autopsy's still useful.”
”We're all aware of that,” said the program manager. ”But weigh it against the negatives. White Sands is limited. Civilian medical backup just isn't there, if we have any problems on landing. In fact, all things considered, I'd suggest we wait it longer, till Kennedy's clear. Logistically, it's the best thing program. Quicker orbiter turnaround, get her right back on the pad for the next mission. In the meantime, the flight crew can stay as a hotel for the next few days.”
Several other program managers nodded. They were all taking the most conservative approach. The crew was safe where they were, the urgency of bringing home Hirai's corpse paled in light of all the problems of a White Sands landing. Carpenter thought of the ways he could be second-guessed should there, G.o.d forbid, be a catastrophic landing at White Sands. He thought of the questions he would ask, were he reviewing the decisions of another flight director.
Why didn't you wait out the weather? Why did you hurry them home?
The right decision was the one that minimized risk, yet met mission goals.
He decided to choose the middle ground.
”Three days is stretching it out too long,” he said. ”So Kennedy's out. Let's go for Edwards. Maybe we'll get clear skies tomorrow.” He looked at the forecaster. ”Make those clouds go away.”
”Sure. I'll just do a reverse rain dance.” Carpenter glanced at the wall clock. ”Okay, crew's wake-up call is in four hours. We'll give *em the news then. They can't come home quite yet.”
August 9
Jill Hewitt woke up gasping. Her first conscious thought was that she was drowning, that with every breath, she was inhaling water.
She opened her eyes, and with her first panicked glance saw what looked like a swarm of jellyfish drifting around her. She coughed, at last managed to draw in a deep breath, and coughed again. The sharply expelled air sent all the jellyfish tumbling away.
She scrambled out of her restraint bag and turned up the cabin lights.
In amazement she stared at the s.h.i.+mmering air.
”Bob!” she yelled. ”We've got a spill!” She heard O'Leary say, up on flight deck, ”Jesus, what the h.e.l.l is this?”
”Get out the masks!” ordered Kittredge. ”Until we know this isn't toxic.” Jill opened the emergency locker, pulled out the contaminant-protection kit, and tossed masks and goggles to Kittredge, O'Leary, and Mercer as they came diving down the access opening into middeck. There'd been no time to get dressed, everyone was still their underwear, still shaking off sleep.
Now, with their masks on, they stared at the blue-green globules drifting around them.
Mercer reached out and captured one in his hand. ”Weird,” he said, rubbing it between his fingers. ”It feels thick. Slimy. some sort of mucus.” Now O'Leary, the medical officer, caught one and held it up to his goggles for a closer look. ”It's not even liquid.”
”Looks to me like a liquid,” said Jill. ”It behaves like one.”
”But it's more gelatinous. Almost likea”” They all gave a start as loud music abruptly blared out. It was Elvis Presley's velvet voice singing ”Blue Suede Shoes.” Their morning wake-up call from Mission Control.
”And a good mornin' to you, Discovery,” came Capcom's cheery voice.
”Time to rise and s.h.i.+ne, folks!” Kittredge responded, ”Capcom, we're already awake. We've, uh, got ourselves a strange situation up here.”
”Situation?”
”We have some sort of spill in the cabin. We're trying to identify it. It's a viscous substance. Sort of a milky blue-green. It looks like little opals floating around. It's already spread to decks.”
”You guys wearing your masks?”
”Affirmative.”
”You know where it's coming from?”
”Not a clue.”
”Okay, we're consulting ECLSS right now. They may have an idea what it is.”
”Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to be toxic. We've all been asleep with this stuff hanging in the air. None of us seems to be sick.” Kittredge glanced around at his masked crew, and they all shook their heads.
”Is there any odor to the spill?” asked Capcom. ”ECLSS wants to know if it could be from the waste collection system.” Suddenly Jill felt queasy. Was this stuff they'd been breathing in, swimming in, leaked toilet waste?
”Uha”I guess one of us has to take a sniff,” said Kittredge. He looked around at his crew, who merely stared back. ”Gee, guys, don't all volunteer at once,” he muttered, and finally lifted his mask. He smeared a globule between his fingers and took a whiff.
”I don't think this is sewage. It doesn't smell chemical, either. At least, not petroleum-based.”