Expedition Five Letters Home #7 – By Astronaut Peggy Whitson
I started writing these notes for friends and family after the shuttle undocked from station, but I have had several folks ask me what the launch was like. I wrote some of the following while sitting in crew quarters the day after our first launch attempt, and the rest obviously later. At the time we scrubbed our first launch attempt, we expected only a day or two delay…which later turned into a week. During the first launch attempt, we had experienced a problem with over-pressurization of one of the OMS tanks. That was resolved during the launch count only to have a thunderstorm move in. I called Dad and told him that farming was not the only profession that depended on the weather!
In the orbiter, after they called for the launch scrub, I was trying to put the pin back in the pyro box (the box actually covers the pyrotechnic charges that I would use to equalize pressure and/or blow the hatch in an emergency). While re-pinning the cover over these handles (“safing the box”) seems quite trivial in training with the orbiter in the horizontal position, it was substantially more challenging in the bulky launch and entry suit (LES) with the nose of the orbiter pointing to the sky. Remember that we are lying on our backs for launch, with our knees/feet up in the air (as if sitting in a chair which has been laid on its back). I was eventually successful, lying across the back of my seat with my feet on Valery’s chest and him pushing on me to get me close enough to put the pin back in position. I made the call up to the shuttle commander, Taco (trying to sound nonchalant and minimize the heavy breathing) and told him that the pyro box was safed and with no adrenalin to help out, and no further tasks on the middeck, I promptly fell asleep.
My seat is referred to as seat 5, which is the closest seat to the hatch. It has the distinct disadvantage in that it is right next to the MAR, which is a rack for stowage of hardware. The result was that I felt like I was rolling away from the rack to my right all the time. I have no idea how some of the larger guys are able to sit/lie there! In order to keep my right arm in position (so that it would not fall out into the space behind me—-kind of like lying on the edge of a bed with your arm hanging over), I had placed my hand under one of the seat restraints. I was comfortable enough to fall soundly asleep while they were working the scrub turnaround procedures.
The next thing I remember was Valery shaking my arm. Imagine the disorientation waking up in the LES on the launch pad (and taking a moment to figure this out), with Valery telling me that they had called me. In my disorientation, I’m scrambling to get my hand out from under the restraint so that I could return the call to OTC (KSC orbiter test conductor). I hit the intercom button first (so only the guys in the orbiter heard me as opposed to the guy I was supposed to be talking to), then eventually got the transmit button. I wonder how obvious it was that I had been awakened when I eventually called in “OTC, MS3 here.” They just wanted to know if I had safed the pyro box!
After the expedition 5 crew unstrapped (we were all seated on the middeck), we waited on the 195-foot level for the flight deck crew (commander, pilot and 2 mission specialists) to be unstrapped. The 195-foot level is the height of the pad where we enter the white room and then the orbiter before launch. At this level there are emergency slide-wire baskets that if necessary we could jump into and quickly escape the launch pad. Valery, Sergey and I were standing near these emergency rescue baskets, watching the thunderstorm to the west. There was no rain at the pad at that point, but the lightning storm was impressive. Cloud-to-cloud lightning, both horizontal and vertical decorated the sky at intervals. This type of thunderstorm is very unusual in the Moscow region, and at one point Sergey asked me if it was dangerous to be standing where we were. It was ironic to me that he would be more worried about the lightning several miles away (although within the 25 mile limit that we needed for launch) than the several hundred tons of liquid O2 and H2 just a few feet behind his back.
Some experienced crew members, had told me that approaching the pad that I would feel an incredible amount of excitement and fear. Probably as a result of the fact that I couldn’t quite grasp the reality that I was actually going to get to go into space, I didn’t feel any fear, only the excitement. A month before flight, I was talking to a friend and told him that I really only believed that I was going into space about 20-30% of the time. I’ve spent so much time training and waiting for this event that it didn’t really seem possible that it might actually happen. After TCDT (terminal countdown test), our dress rehearsal for the launch, my friend checked back with me to find out my “percentage rating.” I told him I had hit the 50-50 point at that time 2 weeks before launch. He called me the day before the first launch attempt, and he asked for the rating. I said it was up to 90%. At that time we speculated on whether or not I would hit the 100% point at solid rocket booster ignition (after which there is NO turning back) or main engine cutoff (when you are in 0-G and no longer feeling the acceleration).
It was about a week later before we were able to make another launch attempt. On our way out to the pad, I had no sense that this would be “the day,” but then again, I wasn’t completely convinced I would really get to go into space! Watching out the window of the astrovan as we approached the pad, I admired the beauty of the shuttle vehicle. The vertical, sweeping lines of the orbiter, the SRBs on either side and the liquid fuel tank in the center gave me the sense that it wanted to leap into the sky. Up close, with the liquid hydrogen and oxygen loaded into the tanks, the vehicle hissed and groaned, as if also anticipating the countdown. At that point in time, it was only the crew and a handful of support folks left at the pad.
On the 195-foot level, we got in line toilet first, then the orbiter. The toilet is a challenging affair where the launch and entry suit is unzipped from the crotch and up the back. To complicate matters, the neck dam, which was pressure-tested back in crew quarters, cannot be removed. The tradition after this struggle was to write our initials in the accumulated frost of the 18-inch liquid O2 supply line nearby. It’s odd the things that make an event real for you, but writing my initials in this frost was one of those moments. The frost was about 5 inches deep, and Valery thought we should have a snowball fight while we were waiting our turn to get in the toilet and orbiter.
On the 195-foot level and in the white room there are about 6 guys that make sure we are in the right place at the right time, with our chutes on. One of the most important aspects of their job would be to assist us in an emergency egress if the need arose and they were still on the pad. At this point in time, each of us has a lot on our mind (HUGE understatement here), and after these guys assisted me into my parachute, they asked me to put my hands against the wall. I gave these guys an incredulous look, and asked if they were going to search me for contraband. Turns out that they just wanted to take my rubber boot liners off! In addition to these folks, two suit techs and an astronaut strapped us into the seats of the orbiter with incredible efficiency, assisted with the communication checks and provided a wonderful sense of humor. Tradition has it that the shuttle commander asks for the astronaut’s nametag, in order to fly it on the orbiter. I thought it appropriate to also ask for our suit techs’ nametags to fly on the station, as well.
The launch countdown seemed pretty much the same as it was during TCDT and the first launch attempt…that is until we got out of the built-in hold in the timeline. We could feel the engines gimballing in their final checks before launch some 100 feet or so below us at the aft end of the shuttle. At launch minus 6.5 seconds, the main engines were ignited and the vibrations increased dramatically; however, these vibrations were a drop in the bucket compared to the vibrations that started at T-0 seconds when the solid rocket boosters ignited. Feeling myself pushed back into the seat as we jumped from the ground, Taco almost immediately called that we were clear of the tower (meaning we had already passed above the launch structure). From the middeck seats, even with no windows, we could feel the roll program that was automatically initiated. The shuttle was accelerating so fast that after a minute or so, the 3 main engines fueled by the liquid propellant in the large central tank (referred to as the external tank), were actually throttled back while we passed through the maximum dynamic drag (referred to as “Max Q” also the name of the astronaut band). After about 2 min and 40 sec, the solid rocket fuel was already burned up and we jettisoned the 2 tanks on each side to lighten our load during the remainder of the ascent. I had heard that this pyrotechnic event for jettisoning the SRBs was impressive, but we had none of the visual effects that the flight deck crew had at this time still the loud bang got our attention. About 5 min after launch, we were feeling the buildup of the G-forces. It felt like there were two people sitting on my chest, making it challenging to breath. And although 3-Gs is not considered much at all by the fighter pilot jocks, it is sustained for about 2.5-3 min, as the main engines were throttled back once again. This time, however, the engines were shut down at just over 8 min after liftoff. This important event, main engine cutoff (MECO), was almost immediately followed by the pyrotechnic separation of the external tank. Since one of the separation points felt like it was right under my feet, it got my attention even more than SRB separation! Less than 8.5 min to go from sea level to orbiting the Earth about 200 miles above. I was there, and it still seems unbelievable!
Since Philippe (of the STS-111 crew) and I were responsible for shooting photographs and video of the external tank as it separated from us, I was in a rush from the moment we hit orbit. All the experienced astronauts had reminded me to move slowly, which I was trying to do but in a very efficient way. I knew we would need to be efficient immediately upon insertion to orbit in order to get any photographs/video of the external tank, so I had mentally choreographed every step, including removing my gloves and helmet and handing them to Valery to put in the helmet bag, disconnecting my harness and comm connector, slowly floating to the ladder (which I no longer needed) and up to the middeck, pulling out the camera and the camcorder from the locker behind Franklin’s seat (STS-111 crew member), and installing the camcorder settings that I had memorized.
At this point I hadn’t really looked up and out the windows, I was concentrating so intensely on each of the next steps. But to say that my first sight of the Earth from orbit was breathtaking or magnificent still seems such a paltry way to describe what I saw and felt. My first impression was of the clarity of my vision (not even air molecules to get in the way of me seeing what was ahead), it seemed I could see an incredible distance. The next impression was of the richness of the colors that made up our planet and the atmosphere below. The colors were so vibrant that they seemed to have a previously unseen texture. I would liken the feeling to having someone turn on the lights after having lived in semidarkness for years. I had never really seen anything quite so clearly or with so much color!
I’m looking forward to Friday…I get to go outside!!!
Peg
