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LJ Idol Exhibit B.7: From Afar
Jul. 3rd, 2013 10:18 pmSATELLITE LAUNCH TEAM, AREA 95—It is surprising how, despite our remoteness from civilization here in the desert in Kazakhstan, we can never be quite sure what we might see here at our home-away-from-home at the Baikonur spaceport. It might be a camel, calmly grazing the scant vegetation against a background of distant launch pad service towers. It might be the open cover of a missile silo, standing absurdly on its edge like a giant manhole cover in the middle distance. Or it might be the launch of a rocket.
The first launch I ever saw "live" was that of Apollo 14, back at the end of January 1971. The next such opportunity presented itself in 2000, at the launch of Shuttle mission STS-106 from the Kennedy Space Center. Over the course of the past ten years, during various launch campaigns at Baikonur, I've lost track of the number of launches I've seen. Somewhere along the line, though, I came to the realization that a large part of the rush of witnessing a launch is that it's not just something you see and hear, like on a television screen, but something you feel as well, if you're close enough.
And there lies the rub.
The Banana River viewing area at Kennedy Space Center in Florida sits 3.2 miles from Pad 39 from where Shuttles used to roar and crackle into space. The viewing area for Pad 31 at Baikonur is closer, about 2.5 miles from the rocket gantry, while spectators viewing launches from Pad 1 at Baikonur—from where Yuri Gagarin punched a hole in the sky to become the first human in space—get to stand even closer to the loud end of the rocket as it lifts off.
There is such a thing as "too close," however. On October 24, 1960, in violation of dozens of safety rules and under extreme schedule pressure, technicians swarmed over a propellant-filled rocket at what was then the Baikonur test range to perform some last-minute fixes before launch. To set an example of coolness under pressure for his subordinates, the man in charge—Marshal Mitrofan Nedelin—sat down on a chair under the first stage engines and started reading a newspaper.
Seconds later, a short circuit in the blockhouse caused the second stage engines to fire inadvertently, resulting in the detonation of the fuel in the first stage directly underneath. Nedelin and those near the rocket were incinerated immediately. Others were engulfed in the resulting fireball. All of this was captured on film, which was made public three decades later, around the time of the breakup of the USSR. In that film, you can see small human figures, on fire, running until they collapse onto the ground and turn into small burning pyres of indeterminate origin. In Baikonur city, there is a memorial to those who died that day, and October 24 is observed as a day of remembrance at the spaceport. No rocket launches are scheduled for that day, not at Baikonur.
* * * It is with some compound grumbling that two mornings ago, our team is rousted from their beds and evacuated from the hotel area in preparation for the launch of a Proton-M carrying Russian GLONASS satellites. "Compound," because we have to be out of the hotels by 6:30 am, and because we are moving away from the launch pad, which lies a breathtakingly scant two miles from the hotels. After the evacuation, our viewing area will be next to our office, about three miles from the pad.
Still, there's little to complain about. The Proton-M is a huge beast, 200 feet tall, weighing over a million metric tons at liftoff, and capable of placing 6 metric tons of payload into a geosynchronous orbit 36,000 miles above our planet. Back in 2005, I sat in a makeshift studio while a Proton-M lifted off from the same pad. I seem to recall that everything and everybody got a good, loud shaking.
At a few minutes before Tuesday's liftoff, we file out of our office facility and make our way steadily, like a procession of ants, toward choice viewing spots near the fence line of our facility. I find a nice spot on top of a berm. There is a light rain falling. Nobody seems to care, save three individuals who huddle under a makeshift awning.
There is no countdown clock, no audible backward count to zero. The launch is scheduled for a precise time, and keeping track of time is your lookout. Not surprisingly, for about all of us, the first indication that the launch has begun is a flash of light and a puff of smoke from the direction of the pad.
There's no noise, as it takes about 14 seconds for sound to cover the intervening distance. But as the rocket emerges from the smoke around the pad, what we can see is that something is amiss. Instead of flying straight up, the rocket is tilted slightly to the right.
Then, much like what happens when a waiter overcompensate while trying to regain control of an out-of-balance stack of plates, the rocket straightens for a moment, but then tilts to the left. Around me, I hear a collective gasp.
The control systems struggle to right the rocket, causing it to again straighten for a moment, and again tilt to the right, but this time, the tilt is pronounced. Exclamations, all of them variations on the same theme of "Uh-oh!," are on nearly everyone's lips as the sound of the launch reaches us. A man standing in front of me throws his arms up in a gesture of despair. The rocket continues to tilt, past the horizontal, until is appears to be flying while pointed straight down.
The sound of the launch, given what we are seeing, no longer seems to be that of the "surly bonds of earth" being slipped. As with other launches, the air seems hardly adequate to hold the sound, but what we're seeing—an out-of-control rocket that's falling from the sky—has shattered the context of what we are accustomed to expect. This launch is not going to end well.
Thirty-two seconds after launch, the Proton-M hits the ground, creating an immense orange fireball, leaving behind an impressive mushroom cloud composed mostly of oxidizer, which is not explosive, but is decidedly toxic. You don't want a lungful of this stuff; it will ruin your day.
But we're not finished. Not yet.
There is a shock wave headed our way, covering the ground at something over three football fields per second. Taking no chances, many of us lie down on the ground or duck down behind the berm.
The shock wave hits us about 16 seconds after the light from the fireball entered our eyes. It is loud, but not ear-poppingly loud. Later, we learn the pressure wave was strong enough to break some of the windows and to dislodge ceiling tiles at our office facility. Immediately after the shock wave passes, we head for our buses and a safer location.
Some time later—despite the fact that this failed launch caused no major injuries or death—I sit on the bus heading back to the hotel area and keep replaying remembered snippets of the Nedelin catastrophe film in my mind, and thinking Had whatever happened on the rocket caused it to turn in our direction... and if it had flown just a little further...
The combination of those images and what-ifs is physically disturbing, like a waking nightmare. But as the day wears on, I think back to those occasions on completely ordinary days where I have come much, much closer to eternity while sitting in a car or walking down the street. Eventually, the replays fade away and my mind turns to other things.
So, has my outlook on launches changed irretrievably? Will I ever again be able to submerge myself fully in the sights, sounds, and sensations of a rocket launch?
I guess I'll have to wait for the next one to find out, won't I?
The first launch I ever saw "live" was that of Apollo 14, back at the end of January 1971. The next such opportunity presented itself in 2000, at the launch of Shuttle mission STS-106 from the Kennedy Space Center. Over the course of the past ten years, during various launch campaigns at Baikonur, I've lost track of the number of launches I've seen. Somewhere along the line, though, I came to the realization that a large part of the rush of witnessing a launch is that it's not just something you see and hear, like on a television screen, but something you feel as well, if you're close enough.
And there lies the rub.
The Banana River viewing area at Kennedy Space Center in Florida sits 3.2 miles from Pad 39 from where Shuttles used to roar and crackle into space. The viewing area for Pad 31 at Baikonur is closer, about 2.5 miles from the rocket gantry, while spectators viewing launches from Pad 1 at Baikonur—from where Yuri Gagarin punched a hole in the sky to become the first human in space—get to stand even closer to the loud end of the rocket as it lifts off.
There is such a thing as "too close," however. On October 24, 1960, in violation of dozens of safety rules and under extreme schedule pressure, technicians swarmed over a propellant-filled rocket at what was then the Baikonur test range to perform some last-minute fixes before launch. To set an example of coolness under pressure for his subordinates, the man in charge—Marshal Mitrofan Nedelin—sat down on a chair under the first stage engines and started reading a newspaper.
Seconds later, a short circuit in the blockhouse caused the second stage engines to fire inadvertently, resulting in the detonation of the fuel in the first stage directly underneath. Nedelin and those near the rocket were incinerated immediately. Others were engulfed in the resulting fireball. All of this was captured on film, which was made public three decades later, around the time of the breakup of the USSR. In that film, you can see small human figures, on fire, running until they collapse onto the ground and turn into small burning pyres of indeterminate origin. In Baikonur city, there is a memorial to those who died that day, and October 24 is observed as a day of remembrance at the spaceport. No rocket launches are scheduled for that day, not at Baikonur.
Still, there's little to complain about. The Proton-M is a huge beast, 200 feet tall, weighing over a million metric tons at liftoff, and capable of placing 6 metric tons of payload into a geosynchronous orbit 36,000 miles above our planet. Back in 2005, I sat in a makeshift studio while a Proton-M lifted off from the same pad. I seem to recall that everything and everybody got a good, loud shaking.
At a few minutes before Tuesday's liftoff, we file out of our office facility and make our way steadily, like a procession of ants, toward choice viewing spots near the fence line of our facility. I find a nice spot on top of a berm. There is a light rain falling. Nobody seems to care, save three individuals who huddle under a makeshift awning.
There is no countdown clock, no audible backward count to zero. The launch is scheduled for a precise time, and keeping track of time is your lookout. Not surprisingly, for about all of us, the first indication that the launch has begun is a flash of light and a puff of smoke from the direction of the pad.
There's no noise, as it takes about 14 seconds for sound to cover the intervening distance. But as the rocket emerges from the smoke around the pad, what we can see is that something is amiss. Instead of flying straight up, the rocket is tilted slightly to the right.
Then, much like what happens when a waiter overcompensate while trying to regain control of an out-of-balance stack of plates, the rocket straightens for a moment, but then tilts to the left. Around me, I hear a collective gasp.
The control systems struggle to right the rocket, causing it to again straighten for a moment, and again tilt to the right, but this time, the tilt is pronounced. Exclamations, all of them variations on the same theme of "Uh-oh!," are on nearly everyone's lips as the sound of the launch reaches us. A man standing in front of me throws his arms up in a gesture of despair. The rocket continues to tilt, past the horizontal, until is appears to be flying while pointed straight down.
The sound of the launch, given what we are seeing, no longer seems to be that of the "surly bonds of earth" being slipped. As with other launches, the air seems hardly adequate to hold the sound, but what we're seeing—an out-of-control rocket that's falling from the sky—has shattered the context of what we are accustomed to expect. This launch is not going to end well.
Thirty-two seconds after launch, the Proton-M hits the ground, creating an immense orange fireball, leaving behind an impressive mushroom cloud composed mostly of oxidizer, which is not explosive, but is decidedly toxic. You don't want a lungful of this stuff; it will ruin your day.
But we're not finished. Not yet.
There is a shock wave headed our way, covering the ground at something over three football fields per second. Taking no chances, many of us lie down on the ground or duck down behind the berm.
The shock wave hits us about 16 seconds after the light from the fireball entered our eyes. It is loud, but not ear-poppingly loud. Later, we learn the pressure wave was strong enough to break some of the windows and to dislodge ceiling tiles at our office facility. Immediately after the shock wave passes, we head for our buses and a safer location.
Some time later—despite the fact that this failed launch caused no major injuries or death—I sit on the bus heading back to the hotel area and keep replaying remembered snippets of the Nedelin catastrophe film in my mind, and thinking Had whatever happened on the rocket caused it to turn in our direction... and if it had flown just a little further...
The combination of those images and what-ifs is physically disturbing, like a waking nightmare. But as the day wears on, I think back to those occasions on completely ordinary days where I have come much, much closer to eternity while sitting in a car or walking down the street. Eventually, the replays fade away and my mind turns to other things.
So, has my outlook on launches changed irretrievably? Will I ever again be able to submerge myself fully in the sights, sounds, and sensations of a rocket launch?
I guess I'll have to wait for the next one to find out, won't I?
