I jumped in surprise as two massive explosions shattered the peace from above the clouds.
We were expecting the twin sonic booms created when the space shuttle de-orbited and slowed for a landing on the Shuttle Landing Facility runway. However, the noise and rattling of windows was always surprising and thrilling.
Biker George, Mildew, and I scanned the sky while standing outside the Pad A operations building, searching for the orbiter.
The space shuttle was landing from the north, and we quickly picked out the space glider.
“There!” said George.
“I see it!” said Mildew.
We watched the shuttle fall from the sky, followed by a tiny white speck that was the T38 jet chase plane.
The silence of the space glider was surreal—an engineering marvel and the shuttle disappeared into the pine trees near the shuttle runway.
“Okay, well, I am going to talk to the pad leader about this work order,” I said.
Biker George and Mildew were already walking to the trucks.
They knew.
We all knew the work order was plain crazy-almost a joke. However, as the lead communication technician, I had to go through the motions and pretend we could work on the launch pad structure.
I glanced at George and chuckled at an old memory.
On my first day at the space center and introduction in the comm shop, when my new supervisor walked out of the break room to answer his phone, I was instantly assaulted by two gorillas.
Biker George and his brother, sporting blond beards and ponytails, pinned me into a corner.
“We’re one-hundred percent union,” said George’s brother Joe.
“No free-loaders in this shop,” hissed George.
Their unexpected behavior initially stunned me into silence.
But with a family at home and happy to be employed stateside after seven tumultuous years traveling with the test range divers, I nodded in agreement.
“Guess I’m joining the union,” I said.
Over the years, the union had proved to be beyond value because of the shifting contracts at the space center. However, the recruitment tactics of the two blond biker brothers was a great story at the KSC parties.
In the launch pad operations building, I chuckled at the photo of the frog recovered from one of the space shuttles. The poster read FOD.
I took a deep breath to explain my orders—which I knew would not happen.
There was a space shuttle on the Pad, with only seventeen days to lift off. The launchpad was in a sealed configuration. Until the shuttle blasted off from the Pad, absolutely no modification to the launch pad structure or communications equipment was permitted.
I knew it, Biker George knew it, Mildew might comprehend the launchpad lockdown, but the weird little troll was secretive about his working knowledge.
I walked into the United Space Alliance office. We both worked for USA, the prime space shuttle contractor.
“What’s up?” asked the operations manager. We knew each other as my crew continually added new optical fiber equipment and cables to the launch pad—one of the many technology changes sweeping the space center.
“I have a work order to install new equipment and fiber cable to the 119’ level of the fixed service structure. It will require welding new conduit to the pad structure,” I said.
I handed my work order over to the ops manager, trying to hide my smirk.
I knew it was not going to happen. It could not happen. Launch configuration trumped everything.
“This is for the Ice team,” I said, trying to be helpful before being sent back to the comm shop for a new work order.
The USA ops manager smiled at my utterly ridiculous work order request. He carefully read the proposal and returned my work order.
“This will have to wait until the shuttle leaves the Pad. The launchpad is in a sealed configuration.”
He smiled apologetically, and I tried not to appear too stupid.
“I know. But I had to ask. I know there is a configuration lockdown, but I’m playing the game,” I said.
“Oh, this email was attached to the work order,” I said, handing the USA manager a copy of the email that was the only attachment.
I was preparing to leave when I noticed the ops desk manager stiffen. He looked at me with slightly bulging eyes.
“Do you know who this is?” he sputtered.
I was trying to figure out how to answer.
Typically, every work order had a different customer, from the National Park Service, all the NASA buildings, the base contractor fire alarm and Tornado Area warning groups, the Launch Control Center firing rooms, and the USAF equipment installed along the shuttle runway or beach tracking sites.
Different customers all, and that was the norm. I only paid attention to the customer names if I was locked out of a building or required an escort to enter a given facility.
My work order for the Ice Team, the name on the document, was familiar, but it was just another “Shuttle Manager” title and this was a space shuttle launch pad, so the title was just a title.
Before I could reply, I did not know who the person on the email was; the ops manager called others from an adjoining room.
The email was passed from person to person, with each person looking at me somewhat skeptically. The launchpad was in a configuration lockdown, and the engineers were counting down to launch day.
I had stirred up a small hornets’ nest and snuck a glance at my copy of the email.
The email was brief. “Get this done. Mike Linebach, Space Shuttle Launch Director.”
I did not know who this Mike fellow was, but evidently, he had some influence—more than the usual pull, it seemed.
Engineers from all areas of the operations building were called to discuss the new problem. By the afternoon, we were on the pad surface with a structural engineer and an ironworker contractor pointing out where we needed a new conduit and ‘launch proof’ equipment housing welded to the fixed service structure.
Standing at the base of the immense launch tower with the space shuttle, the orange fuel tank, and twin solid rockets, I smiled, convinced I was living in a science fiction story.
I swear I saw a woodpecker on the iron Fixed Service Structure.
