OFJ Field Journal from Robert Gounley - 10/18/89
RECOLLECTIONS OF LAUNCH DAY
1989 would be the big year for my project -- the year the Galileo spacecraft
would be launched. Even before launch, many years and hundreds of careers
had already been invested in the mission. By mid- October, with launch imminent,
most of the flight team members were visibly excited. Old-timers like me
(by then, seven years on the project) were more introspective; we had been
here before.
When the project was approved in 1977, plans called for a 1982 Space
Shuttle launch along with a large booster rocket (its upper stage) to
send Galileo off to Jupiter. Within a few years, delays in the Shuttle
program forced Galileo's launch to "slip" to 1984. Later, funding problems
with the upper stage forced a further delay, until 1985. In between, each
new federal budget seemed to threaten Galileo with outright cancellation
and each time Galileo managed to hold on. The engineers and scientists
working on Galileo, all coping with formidable technical challenges made
more complicated by each change to the mission, held on as well, hoping
each postponement would be the last.
When I joined Galileo in December 1982, launch had just slipped to May
1986. This seemed more secure than previous dates. By now, the Shuttle
had launched five times and funding for our upper-stage, the Shuttle-
Centaur, was firmly in place. Morale picked up as we began to assemble
and test the largest and most complex planetary explorer ever. In 1984,
a milestone had been reached -- two years until launch. We had never been
that close before!
By January 1986, I was spending most of my waking hours at work, preparing
for Galileo's launch. Testing was complete and the spacecraft had been
shipped by flat-bed truck from JPL in Pasadena to the Kennedy Space Center,
where it become space shuttle Atlantis's prime cargo. Now, among other
duties, I was the systems engineer responsible for the first maneuver
Galileo would perform. This called for firing the spacecraft's thrusters
about 10 days after launch to assure that its course would take it on
a fly-by of the asteroid Amphitrite along the way to Jupiter. After
years of designing, testing, and trouble-shooting Galileo, I was on the
team that would fly it. Unfortunately, there was no owner's manual in
the glove compartment.
Early on morning of January 28, 1986, the Galileo flight team assembled
in a large conference room for another in a long series of training lectures.
Some of us rubbed sleep from our eyes while others fidgeted, thinking
of the work remaining back at our desks. Overhead, the TV monitors were
all tuned to NASA's internal television network. Later that day, there
would be a press conference announcing Voyager 2's discoveries at the
planet Uranus. Meanwhile, the monitors showed preparations to launch another
Space Shuttle. For us, that launch meant that there would be only one
more to go before our own.
The lecture crept along, broken by many questions and clarifications.
Finally, someone suggested we take a short break to watch the shuttle
launch. We all looked up in time to watch the Space Shuttle Challenger
liftoff and clear the tower. Since the TV monitors had their sound off,
people chatted freely. Over my shoulder, someone said, "It's amazing how
that thing works every time."
On the screen above, Challenger was fading into the sky. By now, we
knew the shuttle launch sequence by heart. Soon the solid rocket motors
would burn out and separate. We were all startled when we saw what appeared
to be an early separation of the solid motors. As the seconds dragged,
a growing fireball filled the screen, showing many pieces dropping from
the sky.
Without spoken commentary from the TV, no one knew for sure what was
happening.
In some launch failures, the shuttle can return to the launch site for
a runway landing. Was Challenger on its way there now, out of sight of
the TV camera?
Someone said the monitors in the cafeteria next door might have sound.
About a dozen of us bolted for the doors. The cafeteria monitors were
silent also, but as we arrived, the NASA cameras had panned downward to
watch large pieces of debris hit the ocean. There was no sign of Challenger
gliding toward a runway.
We all felt grief in our own ways. A few cried. Others stared vacantly
at the screen, then slowly ambled away. The Astronaut Corps, the most
visible side of NASA, came to represent the many thousands of us that
worked in the space program. We lost family that day.
On the Galileo project, our actions, which a short time earlier were
energetic and purposeful, became lethargic and disjointed. Would Galileo
ever launch? Would there be planetary exploration at all in the near future?
Within a day, our Project Manager, John Casani, returned from Florida
where he had been overseeing Galileo launch preparations. We assembled
in the cafeteria and John spoke atop a chair so he could be seen and heard
by everyone.
He confirmed, as most had already assumed, that no one knew when to
expect another shuttle flight. In the meantime, our work to prepare for
launch and flight operations remained very important and we were all expected
to continue. Galileo would launch someday and the knowledge required to
fly it must be "captured" while this flight team remained together. Meanwhile,
others would go off to plan a new mission.
1986 dragged on with new options considered and dropped almost weekly.
For a while, a 1987 launch seemed possible. Soon the new launch date moved
to 1988 and finally settled at October 1989. Our upper stage-- the Shuttle-Centaur
booster, which used cryogenic liquid fuel--had been canceled a few months
earlier. The spacecraft was now going to use the much smaller Inertial
Upper Stage (IUS) booster. To get to Jupiter, Galileo would have to take
a six-year looping trajectory through the inner solar system rather than
a two-year direct flight. More importantly, the spacecraft would have
to be significantly modified to fly much closer to the Sun than the original
flight path called for. The added time was a disappointment, but there
was now so much more to be done.
By October 1989, the spacecraft was inside the Space Shuttle Discovery,
awaiting launch. A new flight team had been assembled, about an even mix
of new faces and old. This time, I was in charge of early cruise activities
to check out Galileo's operation -- a "shake-out" to uncover problems
before the Venus fly-by next February when solar heating would be at its
worst. Depending on the day Galileo launched, my command sequence would
have to be adjusted (since the actual trajectory would be somewhat different
from the planned trajectory). Unfortunately, that meant that during launch
I would not be stationed in Galileo's Mission Support Area (the MSA being
Galileo's version of Apollo 13's Mission Control - Houston). Rather, I
would have to stay fresh to rework my commands soon after Galileo was
sent on its way.
This wasn't the happiest possible arrangement for me, but I accepted
that responsibilities had to be divided and there were others who were
more qualified to do the monitoring. Besides, the last thing the MSA needed
were people standing around "just to be there" and obstructing other's
concentration.
In the weeks prior to launch, some friends and I conspired to make our
own personal statement on Launch Day. This project consumed most of the
precious personal time we had, but it seemed not to matter. How many
times does someone get to celebrate the start of a planetary voyage?
Galileo's launch date was set by the positions of the planets. For a
proper gravity assist, the spacecraft must approach Venus at precisely
the right time and in precisely the right direction and speed. Our upper-stage
would deliver most of the energy required for this; the rest would come
to launch and, on either side of it, days when you could get to Venus
by using more fuel. In hard terms, this meant Galileo *had* to be launched
sometime between October 12 and November 21, or the increased fuel cost
would force us to delay launch until the next favorable planetary alignment
six months later.
To make matters worse, the Space Shuttle had its own constraints that
determined what time of day it could launch. In the middle of our launch
period we might have a "launch window" lasting over an hour, but near
the beginning and end there would only be minutes to launch on each day.
A streak of minor problems or one large one could keep Galileo earthbound
until the following year.
As our launch period began, everyone waited nervously as the shuttle
prepared for launch. Minutes ticked away and then an announcement came
from Florida. The shuttle had a problem with one of its computers and
the launch that day was scrubbed.
A week later, with the computer repaired, our countdown began again.
This time, clouds rolled in over the launch site and weather forced another
cancellation.
October the 18th was a bright and sunny day in Pasadena. There were
still clouds in Florida, so many of us expected that day's launch would
be scrubbed also. Either that, or some other problem would cause a delay.
Working on Galileo, we had learned to accept such things.
Friends in the MSA that morning tell me that when the launch clock finally
started ticking down to the single minutes, they looked at each other
with eyes wide. They were really going to do it! In a conference room
in another building, I watched a TV screen with a roomful of other Galileo
personnel. There was a buzz of nervous chatter right up to the final seconds
before launch.
Al Hoffman, our chief environmental engineer, kept a watchful eye on
the door to make sure latecomers had a view.
When the Space Shuttle cleared the launch tower, the room erupted with
cheers and applause. The noise subsided as the shuttle rose higher and
we remembered another launch three and a half years earlier. We held our
breaths as Discovery passed through one minute of flight and then two.
Cheers rose up again when we saw the shuttle's solid-rocket motors burn
out and fall safely away.
Fists punched the air and hands slapped each other in "high-fives".
Others slumped contentedly in their chairs, relieved that their wait was
finally over.
With the shuttle, and our spacecraft, safely on its way to Earth orbit,
Al Hoffman began handing out lapel pins commemorating Galileo's launch.
It was the first of many similar pins I would receive.
My co-conspirators and I looked at each other. The shuttle, with Galileo
aboard, was in space at last. This was the right time.
We went to a utility closet and took the bundle of cloth, wood, and
rope that we had worked nights and weekends to prepare. On the roof, we
spread apart as planned and began to tie our rigging. Over the side we
hung our banner measuring about 10 feet high by 50 feet wide, all in white
with large blue lettering. "Galileo: WE'RE ON OUR WAY!", it said in print
large enough to be plainly seen from JPL's plaza, eight stories below.
Fluttering in the sun that clear fall morning, it was a beautiful sight.
Perhaps it was an extravagant gesture, but it spoke of the pride and
satisfaction felt that day. We wanted to tell the world about it.
Whatever the future held, Galileo was earthbound no longer.
Bob Gounley went on to become a deputy team chief for Galileo's engineering
team and understands that it is against regulations to hang banners off
the sides of buildings without prior approval. Having recently started
work on a new project, he now observes the Galileo project from afar.
He looks forward to celebrating Galileo's arrival at Jupiter next week.
|