Launch on Need Daniel Guiteras (interesting books to read .TXT) 📖

looked to her right, up into the payload bay, hoping to give her brain something, anything, it could use as a fixed visual reference. She thought about all the previous training, all she had endured to become an astronaut. Classmates had teased her for having the queasiest stomach of the class. “Don’t barf your helmet, Jan,” they would say during zero-gravity simulations. But this was no simulation, and her stomach was showing no respect for all she had accomplished over her career as an astronaut. She was hanging out over Columbia’s wing, just trying to perform a relatively simple task, but hampered by a queasy stomach.

After a very long moment, the nausea finally seemed to be passing. And then, finally, it seemed she got a break from the nausea.

“Okay, Houston,” Jan said, reengaging, “ah, I can see the wing now. There does seem to be some discoloration along the top of the wing.”

“We copy you, Jan,” the CapCom said, turning to Flight Director Warner with a worried expression. Warner returned an equally troubled look.

“The discoloration starts at the leading edge and goes aft on the wing. But I can’t see any specific damage in my current position. The lighting is such… hold on while I… no it won’t work. I thought if I could move to my right a little, I’d be able to see better, but no… I’m gonna need Steve out here.”

“So, are you reporting no actual wing damage, then, Jan?” the CapCom asked, hoping she’d return an unequivocal no.

“I don’t see any damage from where I am on the wing, but I can’t see enough of the wing to make a definite determination.”

Steve had been listening to the conversation between Jan and Houston. He, of course, was smiling. All he heard was that Jan would need his help, that he’d get his spacewalk. He knew how limited the view out the helmet could be. He just figured she couldn’t maneuver well enough to get a clear view of the wing. Never once did he think there would be any real wing damage.

Chapter 14

Space Center Houston

(Visitor Complex for the Johnson Space Center)

“IT ALMOST SOUNDS LIKE you hope the wing is damaged,” Brown said, before putting an enormous forkful of honey mustard wonton chicken salad in his mouth.

“I never said that or meant to imply that,” Stangley said, as if he’d been insulted. “I simply posed the question. Can you comprehend how big this thing will be if the wing is damaged to the point where they can’t make it back? That’s all I meant.” Stangley chewed a chunk of ice, then tipped back on his chair and waited for a response.

Brown considered Stangley’s question again, but still wasn’t ready to answer him directly. “Hey, why did you want to meet here at the visitor’s complex, anyway? I can think of a lot better places to eat lunch.” Brown looked up at the overhead sign and read it out loud. “The Blast-Off Bistro?”

“Well, I’m doing research here.”

“Researching what?”

Stangley shrugged timidly as if Brown was probing him in a sensitive place.

“Oh, I know,” Brown said laughing. “You’ve come here so you can put your finger on the pulse of the American people, or some bullshit like that. Right?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Stangley said, pondering his decision to spend some time mingling with the visitors at the Space Center.

“What’s that thing you reporters always say? ‘Never get married to a story.’ This whole debris strike will probably turn out to be nothing.”

“I’m not married to the story,” Stangley quickly replied, feeling a need to defend his position. “I just…” he paused and looked across the busy cafeteria, considered changing his question. For a moment, he thought he might instead ask Brown why he’d sent him the e-mail scoop. Why did he choose me? He pondered his options a few seconds more, decided to stay with his original question, thought Brown might finally take his bait.

“So… can you?” Stangley asked again, unable to think of a better way to ask his question.

“Can I imagine how big it would be? That’s your question?”

Brown confirmed, implying he wanted to be certain what he’d be answering.

“Yes!” Stangley said, relieved he’d finally get his answer.

“Off the record?”

“Of course.”

Brown set his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Stangley watched Brown run his tongue around his top teeth in a sucking, cleaning swipe. Stangley interpreted Brown’s stalling as a positive sign. Certainly by watching his expression, Stangley knew he was about to hear another one of Brown’s “pearls.”

“I can tell you what it was like during Apollo 13 and, yes, I’m that old,” Brown said, resting his upper body on his forearms at the table’s edge. His hands were fists. “It was a frickin’ mess in every way, a lot of sleepless nights. But we worked as a team, tried to think how we could get our guys back home. It was probably the highlight of my career. As bad as it was, though, as hard as we had to work, 13 ended well. But this situation with Columbia, I mean if the wing is jacked, truly jacked, it’ll make Apollo 13 look like a frickin’ picnic.”

Brown picked up his fork quickly, as if he couldn’t hold off for another second. He took a bite of salad, chewed twice, then quickly pushed the bite to the side of his mouth with his tongue, and continued.

“First of all, you’re talking seven instead of three astronauts. We’re talking about an international crew, so we’ll have Israel and India breathing down our necks to do everything possible to bring their countryman and woman back home. You’ve got a several-billion-dollar reusable space plane, versus Apollo’s tin can, which could never have been used again, anyway, except of course by the Smithsonian. And then there’s our obligation to continue with the Space Station construction. Either way, wing damage or