“Colonel Cerven, any thoughts?”
“Yes, Admiral. We cannot simply announce to the world that we’re going EVA from a shuttle with an inadequately trained crew to blow up a killer satellite. The problem is cosmetic in the extreme.”
“Go on, Jim.”
“Admiral, we need the right crew and the right cover story for the media if we are to avoid another damned feeding frenzy like we saw after we lost Challenger. I’m thinking about the Palapa-Westar operation. You will recall that we trained a four-man, one-woman crew for the Palapa-Westar rescue mission performed by Shuttle Fourteen, Mission 51-A in November 1984. Since that crew was successful, they are still rather well known to the press. But for the first time since Shuttle Two back in ’81, we also trained a back-up crew to keep the insurance companies that underwrote the retrieval operation happy. Will Parker and Jack Enright, both of whom you know, were the back-up pilots. Trained with them were two mission specialists who would have done the spacewalks. That reserve crew would have gone only if the primary crew on Fourteen had failed.
“My people are proposing that we send only Parker and Enright to do the whole LACE operation — no other crewmen. First, eliminating the two mission specialists would cut our potential losses in half if the worst happens, Second, neither Parker nor Enright are well known to the media people. Parker flew in Gemini and in Apollo. But that’s ancient history to the press. Enright has never flown. They don’t have any friends in the press corps. These guys are real hard-asses. The Cape and Houston people call them ‘the icemen.’ Let Parker handle the ship while Enright goes outside. They both already have extensive EVA training for the Palapa-Westar rescue flight. In fact, they are still in active training for a shuttle military mission next year.”
“Palapa and Westar,” Secretary Vazzo inquired.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Colonel James Cerven continued with his fine Long Island accent showing just a trace of North Carolina. “Palapa was the Indonesian communications satellite and Westar-6 the Western Union bird, both lost when their PAM boosters failed to light properly on Shuttle 10 in ’84. They shot off into the wrong orbits, luckily low enough for another shuttle to get up to them. Shuttle 14 went after them. After a successful rendezvous in space, our two astronauts did a spacewalk — EVA — to bring them back into the shuttle payload bay for return to Earth.
“Here’s our plan as of this moment: On March 14, 1990, a Titan-3 missile launched the Intelsat-6 spacecraft into space. Unfortunately, the rocket failed to get the satellite into the proper orbit. The 265-million-dollar bird is parked in a useless orbit of 220 by 140 miles.
“We propose to announce that sudden degradation of Intelsat’s systems from prolonged exposure require an emergency shuttle mission to pick it up and return it to Earth for repairs. This is exactly what we did with Palapa and Westar. Astronauts Parker and Enright, under that cover, will rendezvous with LACE instead, attach the PAM, and blast LACE into the atmosphere. My people are confident of having the perfect cover with the perfect crew: absolutely trained but rather unknown.”
Secretary Vazzo looked uncomfortable.
“What about security as far as radio communications with your Parker and Enright up there?” the Secretary demanded wearily.
“Good point, Mr. Secretary,” the Colonel nodded. “If the Russians and the European Space Agency both agree to maintain our cover, then the only real security problem is worldwide monitoring of our air-to-ground communications. And we have a handle on that: Normally, we communicate with shuttles by the high-altitude, TDRS satellites — Tracking Data and Relay satellites. These birds give us virtually constant contact with shuttles. But they can also be listened to. So, we are now working around the clock to get crews into the old NASA network of ground-tracking stations. We began closing them down around the world in 1989, to replace them with TDRS satellites. We can communicate with Parker and Enright through these old ground stations and then relay the communications to Houston and NASA by landlines which are tap-proof. And we even have a perfect cover for this change: In February 1990, one of the TDRS birds went on the blink. Its Ku-band antenna broke so we could not get shuttle television pictures down. That TDRS had been sent up in September of ’88. So, we will also be announcing with our Intelsat-6 press release that we may have to rely on the old NASA ground stations since we will need good television coverage of the Intelsat rendezvous and spacewalk. Perfect, gentlemen… Everything perfect.” Colonel Cerven looked tired but pleased.
“Assuming,” Secretary Vazzo sighed, “that you can work with Moscow’s new Chief of Staff, Marshall Akhromeyev. Don’t underestimate this new man.” The diplomat’s face showed the strain.
“We’re working on that, Joe,” the Admiral said with fatigue in his voice. “Our people agree with Colonel Cerven’s proposal. Colonel Stermer, how soon can your people switch Parker and Enright to the LACE operation, install the mylar blankets in the shuttle’s payload bay, and have Endeavor launch-ready from the Cape?”
“Just say the word, Admiral. We can pull Endeavor’s chocks in thirty days.” The Colonel from Canaveral was ecstatic.
“How about ninety-six hours… Four days.”
The silence was intense.
“Admiral, we would barely have time for external tank chilldown and for installing Endeavor’s pyrotechnics. Twenty days at the very best. And that’s leaving a mess of screws untightened.”
“Four days, Dale.”
“Admiral. Forgive me. But it cannot be done.” The man from Florida looked stricken.
“Dale, four days. That’s the word from upstairs. The final word.”
The Marine stenographer opened his eyes to join the little company looking at the harried officer from Cape Canaveral.
“Admiraclass="underline" Four days. December 18th… Do you know what ‘Palapa’ means in Indonesia? It means ‘Fruit of our Effort.’ ”
“Think we’re going to get fired, Skipper?” Jacob Enright asked with a weak grin.
The two fliers slouched in their flightsuits soaked with sweat. They sat alone in the Johnson Center’s conference room, the same sterile room where they had been humiliated the previous night.
“Wouldn’t mind, Jack. This crap of flying the simulator at dawn or at midnight so the other crews can fly it in daylight is getting to me.” Colonel Parker looked over his coffee mug to the cold darkness beyond the window. “Midnight again, Jack. Going to forget how to fly in daylight.” When angry, the Colonel’s voice lost its down-home drawl.
“I know. At least, Will, we didn’t bend our metal today… All damn morning shooting launch aborts, and half the night doing workarounds in the cockpit on electrical glitches… Was it this afternoon we tipped a few at your place, or was it last week?” Enright sighed, slouched deeper into his chair, and with closed eyes he sipped his cold coffee.
The conference-room door opened and the tall, bearded flight director entered, followed by his wake of pipe smoke. His face was grim as Parker and Enright looked up with bleary and dark eyes. The fliers waited for the rest of the director’s entourage for another simulator, postmortem at midnight.
The Flight Director turned his face to the door, which he pulled closed behind him. The two seated airmen looked quickly at each other as their sleepy minds registered that the Flight Director was alone.
“Git them resumes ready, Number One,” Colonel Parker whispered to Enright as the youthful engineer in a cloud of pipe smoke sat down opposite the exhausted pilots.
Parker and Enright sat up as the Director intently studied the ashen-faced astronauts. The pilots looked back at the Director’s face, an anguished face, thought Parker.