Here's the last day, Sunday, May 24, when they landed. I will follow with one more set of final thoughts.
6am - the sky has large patches of blue; I begin to feel some optimism that they might actually land today.
We follow our usual routine, going through security and driving to the press site. I'm not the only optimist; everyone seems buoyed by the improved weather, although there are still some clouds and thundershowers offshore.
The word is, one way or another, they're determined to land today. The shuttle has one more day of supplies, so tomorrow could be an option, but they want to keep it as a last resort emergency day, in case they discover a problem as they're starting the landing prep.
The other possible landing site for Atlantis is Edwards Air Force base in California, the famous dry lakebed that was the setting for much of Tom Wolfe's book The Right Stuff. Edwards is nearly ideal - it's got miles and miles of nothing, incredibly long runways, and usually excellent weather.
But NASA really would prefer to land at Cape Canaveral, for one simple reason: transporting the shuttle back here from Edwards is a real bear. It costs about $1.8 million, and it's pretty dangerous to boot.
To transport the shuttle, they strap it on top of a special 747. Because the shuttle's exterior is so vulnerable to impacts, they won't fly through rain or weather - that could damage the shuttle's surfaces. Nor can they fly too fast either, also for fear of damaging the shuttle.
So they fly slow and low - below 10,000 feet, where the air is thickest. Between all the weight they're carrying and the air resistance, they burn through fuel fast. So they have to stop frequently; they end up doing a series of short hops from one military air base to another. It takes about a week to fly the shuttle from the West Coast to Florida.
So it's pretty clear why they prefer to land here. That's why they've tried three days in a row - despite picture perfect weather at Edwards.
By now, on our third day of waiting, our crew is running out of ways to pass the time. Our sound man tells me a "producer joke:" Q: How can you tell if a producer is lying? A: When his lips are moving.
It occurs to me to counter with a "sound man" joke: Q: How tall is the average sound man? A: I don't know, I've never seen one standing up. (they always sit down on the job, get it?) But since our sound man today is not only a nice guy, but also happens to be rather short, I refrain.
Instead, I answer with my personal favorite producer joke. Q: How many producers does it take to change a light bulb? A: I'm really not sure - what do you think? I like this one because it points up one of the parts of the job that I think is hardest: maintaining objectivity or perspective. Even though I do tend to have strong opinions, I'll often feel unsure because I'm just too close to a film...
Without warning, an announcement begins and our levity abruptly ceases. Although the sky looks mostly blue, there are still some storm clouds on the edge of the general landing zone (a circle 30 miles in diameter centered on the runway). The Weather Officer says the weather here is "too dynamic," meaning it changes often and fast. Though it's good now, there's no guarantee what it will be like an hour from now.
Therefore, they're going to land at Edwards.
A collective groan passes through the crowd. After camping out here for three days, it's definitely a letdown. A third of the crowd starts to slowly collect their stuff and drift out to their cars; the rest of us wait to watch the Edwards landing on TV.
I remind myself that the astronauts are kept pretty sequestered once they get back to earth; we'd be lucky to get a statement from them, or a short Q&A, but no real one-on-one interviews would be allowed anyway.
An hour later, we watch a beautiful touch down on TV.
They're back, and they're safe. I'm relieved.
After spending two years filming them practice and prepare, it had started to feel like the actual flight might never happen. And now, over these past two whirlwind weeks, it has.
I can't believe it's over.
We head for the airport and begin our own journey back home. I've learned an enormous amount these past two weeks, and changed some long held opinions about the space program. Tomorrow I'll jot down some final thoughts.
Again, we assemble at 6:30, go through security, and enter Kennedy Space Center (KSC). Again the sky is totally overcast; I'm not at all optimistic that they'll land today.
Proceeding from the security checkpoint toward the press site, I suddenly spot the Shuttle Training Aircraft above us and to the left, descending steeply. Astronaut Steve Lindsay is flying mock shuttle landings in order to assess the conditions that Scooter Altman, Atlantis's commander, will experience if they do end up landing here today.
The Shuttle Training Aircraft is a Gulfstream jet that has been fitted with shuttle-type controls, and modified so as to handle like the shuttle. Shuttle commanders and pilots (the ones who actually fly the shuttle, as opposed to the "mission specialist" astronauts who do spacewalks but no piloting) use this training airplane to practice landing the shuttle.
Scooter, Atlantis's commander, explained to me that the shuttle comes in 7-times steeper than an airliner. Watching the training jet make a mock approach, it almost looks like a plane about to crash - it seems to be literally diving toward the ground.
When the shuttle lands, they have some pretty restrictive weather requirements. They don't want any chance of flying through rain or lightning; rain can actually damage the thermal tiles covering the spacecraft (they're incredibly robust against heat, but very fragile when it comes to physical impacts of any kind).
They even try to avoid clouds or smoke. After all, when it descends the shuttle is a glider with no engines - it's basically falling like a brick, and the pilot has one chance to land it. If he's off course or can't see the runway, too bad - there's no going around to try again. So they want conditions to be excellent.
The other problem is the time delay in between committing to land and the actual landing. Once they decide to go, they fire their engines for the last time and the shuttle basically starts falling, but it takes over an hour to fall from orbit down to the ground.
That means they have to reliably forecast the weather at the landing site over an hour ahead of time. Our weather here is lousy, but they tell us Florida has some of the fastest-changing weather in the world, which makes their forecasting even harder.
After an hour and a half of waiting, we get word that the first landing opportunity is waved off. Looking at the sky, I'm not surprised. The next opportunity will come on the next orbit around the earth, which takes about 90 minutes.
Everybody here is anxious, even the official NASA people who seem to strive for blandness and complete lack of emotion in every manner of speech, dress, and demeanor.
We'll drink more coffee and wait...
On friday, we meet our camera and sound guys at 6:30am - and things don't look
good. The sky is totally overcast; I can't imagine they'll try to land
in this.
By 8:30 we learn that the first opportunity is canceled; an hour
later, so is the second. The forecast doesn't really call for much to
change, but nevertheless, they'll try again on Saturday.
I guess it's not so bad for the astronauts; for
twelve days every minute of their time has been scheduled, broken down
into five-minute increments. John Grunsfeld, who has flown three
previous shuttle missions, has told me that they are so busy in space
they literally barely have a moment to look out the window. Now
they've got most of a day for sightseeing
Notes from Thursday's shoot.
With the spacewalks done and the shuttle safe to return, I'm dealing
with loose ends and getting ready to travel to Florida for the landing,
scheduled for tomorrow.
This morning cinematographer Joe Brunette and I left the hotel at 5 to
go shoot the sunrise over Johnson Space Center. Since the Goddard
engineers on the Hubble repair team generally came on shift at 4am each
day, for several days we've gotten up in the middle of the night to
film them going to work.
Now we need establishing shots - bigger panoramas we can use to signify
the passage of time in the film. And nothing says "day over" or "new
day begins" like a sunset or sunrise.
The problem is, Houston is as flat as a pancake, and we need a high
vantage point. We've spotted the perfect spot - the back yard of a
Houston Fire Dept station next to NASA. Their roof would be even
better, perfect really, but we can't imagine they'd give us permission
to go up there.
The station seems deserted; we walk in, calling out "Hello? Anybody
here?" and feeling somewhat like intruders. Finally two suspicious
firemen emerge from a back room with a definite "who the hell are you,
and what are you doing in our house?" look. "Can I help you?"
I begin my standard spiel: this is who we are, we're making a film
about the Hubble mission for PBS, it's part of the series "Nova," we
need to shoot the sunrise, we just want to place our camera here, we
won't disrupt your routine or damage your property, I'll be happy to
sign something, blah, blah, blah -- when fireman Rudy interrupts me: "I
love Nova - how 'bout using our roof?"
Joe and I exchange glances; this is more than we had dared hope for.
Rudy clears the path to a ladder mounted on the cinderblock wall; it's
straight vertical, two stories high, and frankly a nerve wracking
climb, especially carrying camera and tripod, leaving only one hand to
hold on with. As we climb, I'm thinking whoever is the Houston FD
liability lawyer would be horrified if he could see this -- but so
what? All we care about is getting our shot, and Rudy is totally on
our side.
The man is a gem. He not only gets us on the roof, he starts blocking
our shots for us, suggesting angles, and scheduling when we need to
arrive the next morning and evening. He should be a production
manager. Plus, he insists on making bacon, eggs, pancakes and coffee
for us. I regretfully decline, having to go back to the hotel and
pack. Rudy seems downright insulted when I pass on his breakfast
offer, but is mollified when I settle for a Styrofoam cup of coffee
(the firemen have one size -- humongous).
Joe shoots the sunrise, then dines on the fireman's breakfast, while I
pack and check out. He'll be back tonight to shoot the sunset.
Meanwhile, I'm off to Florida. The landing at Cape Canaveral is scheduled for tomorrow morning.
Hi guys;
Landing postponed 2 days in a row -- tomorrow should be it, whether
it's here in FL or out at Edwards Air Force base in CA will be decided
at the very last moment.
I have gotten somewhat caught up on more blog posts.
Wednesday 5/20 -- 2
Late in the day we got the word that the team scrutinizing video of the
shuttle has pronounced it free of damage - so it's safe to return.
The whole subject of danger on this mission is a strange one. Whenever
I ask the astronauts about danger, I notice I speak in general terms,
whereas they answer me in the language of mathematics and probability.
I tend to think of the danger as very dramatic and a big deal; they
boil it down to numbers. And they never say "danger" - they always
call it "risk."
They trust experts to calculate the odds of disaster, which are
expressed in a ratio like 1:200, or 1:160 (I have no idea how they
arrive at these numbers). Back in February, two satellites collided in
orbit, greatly increasing increasing the amount of space debris. That
event also increased the chances of the shuttle getting destroyed
during the Hubble repair mission.
Shortly after the satellite collision, Greg Johnson ("Ray Jay") the
pilot, told me that the experts had recalculated the risk of "loss of
crew and vehicle" due to getting hit by debris; the latest estimate was
something like 1 in 160. I was surprised; that sounded uncomfortably
dangerous to me.
But to him, it was a number. And mission planners were taking steps to
change the number to make it more acceptable (I'm told they prefer to
keep the risk around 1:200). This is what they call "risk management"
or "mitigating" the risk.
That's where yesterday's maneuver, the change to an elliptical-shaped
orbit came from. By spending half their time at a lower altitude (an
area with a lower probability of getting hit), they can average the
higher and lower risk numbers, and improve their overall risk number.
So because the numbers have changed, the mission's suddenly not as
dangerous as it was before? I get it, I suppose, but this is just not
a way of thinking that I'm used to.
If I were told the chances of my car blowing up the next time I turn
the key are 1 in 160 - and then later I'm told they've recalculated and
the number is actually 1 in 200 - I wouldn't feel that much better
about starting the car tomorrow morning. I don't really care if it's
1:160 or 1:200 - both seem too high.
I guess regardless of the numbers, I instinctively imagine what it would feel like to be that unlucky "1" in the equation.
I understand the way these people look at the danger, and they're not
foolhardy. They do all they can to turn "risk" into "science;" like a
savvy player in Vegas, they study and try to manipulate probability.
And it does make sense to me intellectually when they explain it. But
it still doesn't resonate in my gut.
Maybe I'm just too much of a humanities major.
Hi guys;
Well, the weather forced a postponement of today's landing. It doesn't
look too good for tomorrow either; they may end up landing at Edwards
Air Force base in CA.
The good part was that it has given me some time to do more writing. Here are my thoughts from Wednesday.
With all the spacewalks complete and 100% successful, and Hubble once
again released into its own orbit, there's a sense of the mission
starting to wind down. And for the Goddard engineers and many of the
Hubble repair team on the ground it is. But they're just part of an
even larger team, which deals with launching, flying, and landing the
shuttle. Repairs over, that team is now shifting gears; the focus now
changes to getting their seven friends in space safely back on the
ground.
It's not getting much attention, but at this very moment the rescue
shuttle Endeavour is on the launch pad in Cape Canaveral just days away
from being ready to launch. It normally takes weeks and a cast of
thousands to get a shuttle prepped and off the ground, so to save time
the rescue mission has been proceeding as if they're going to go.
We're told they won't cancel Endeavour's countdown until Atlantis has
actually fired its engines and started for home.
Obstacles to the safe return of Atlantis include having damage to their
thermal protection system, which would make them vulnerable to the
intense heat as they reenter the atmosphere (the kind of problem that
doomed Columbia). Or, being hit while on orbit by a micro meteoroid
going faster than a bullet.
To avoid these scenarios, they do two things: try to get out of the way
of micro-meteoroid space debris, and inspect their thermal protection
system with cameras and lasers.
To get out of the way, after releasing the telescope, Commander Scooter
Altman did an engine burn to change the shuttle's orbit. Atlantis had
been in a circular orbit over 3 00 miles high - 100 miles higher than
where the International Space Station is and where shuttles usually
fly. Apparently the amount of space debris whizzing around is greater
at higher altitudes, so when you're higher you're more likely to get
hit. As soon as they released Hubble, mission managers wanted to get
them the heck out of there.
In their new elliptical orbit, they're now in a path roughly 300 miles
by 150 miles. That reduces by a sizeable portion the amount of time
each orbit spends crossing through the higher, more dangerous zone.
With their orbit lowered, now they'll start using the robotic arm to do
inspections of their thermal protection surfaces, the heat-resistant
tiles and reinforced carbon edges of the wings. Megan already did this
on the first/second day to check for damage that might have occurred on
the way up during the launch.
But they've been up there in the danger zone for nine days, and
something could have hit in the meantime, so they do another set of
inspections to look for any new damage just before coming home. Megan
does the bulk of the arm operations, but Scooter and Mike Massimino
sometimes take turns as well.
There's a team on the ground that scrutinizes the video they send down
(which they all refer to as "the data"). I think they're called the
DAT (Damage Assessment Team? Or is it Debris Assessment Team? It's
really hard to keep the acronyms straight around here). It will take
them another day or so to produce their report.
If any damage is found, there's a series of steps they would take.
First, closer inspections of the suspicious area. Then, depending on
what they see, possibly an emergency spacewalk to try and repair the
damage. (One of the things we filmed last summer was the astronauts
taking a class on how to repair damaged tiles or reinforced carbon
panels on the wings.) And at Cape Canaveral the rescue mission would
probably go into high gear because if it were needed, time would be of
the essence.
But all that is hypothetical and in the future. Right now, the
spacewalkers are resting and recovering. The whole crew is doing a few
press conferences from space, and will have a private phone call with
President Obama. Mike Massimino is taping his daily home movie show,
and Megan and others are inspecting the skin of their vehicle.
Most likely we'll soon have an uneventful return that will cap off an
extremely successful mission - or, if they find damage, we could
witness a repair effort or rescue flight, either one of which would be
completely unprecedented.
With all the surprises encountered on the spacewalks, most people here
feel there's been enough unprecedented stuff on this flight already,
thank you. They're hoping for boring and uneventful.
Sorry -- I fell behind in my updates these past few days. My recent evenings have been spent shooting sunsets and nighttime exteriors at NASA, plus some very early morning sunrises. So I haven't had much writing time since Monday.
I flew to Cape Canaveral today; they're supposed to try and land tomorrow morning. But the weather here is bad, so they'll probably postpone the landing a day. If so, I'll try to catch up on my updates over the next couple of days.
Here are my notes from Tuesday:
This morning Megan McArthur, the only woman on the crew, released Hubble back into its own orbit - the last time humans will ever see it in person. The astronauts have been joking about who has the honor of being the "last person to touch Hubble." It seems like it was John Grunsfeld at the end of yesterday's spacewalk - but technically it was actually Megan, since she was operating the robotic arm that released Hubble today.
Throughout our two years of following these folks, every time I've asked her about her worst stress or anxiety, Megan has consistently articulated the same answer: "breaking Hubble." The robotic arm she operates is huge and powerful, and in her work there is enormous potential for one false move to damage the telescope.
Megan is the one who grabs Hubble when it is floating free in space, and moves it into the shuttle's payload bay and parks it. During each of the five spacewalks, she has an astronaut riding on the end of the arm, who she has to position close to or even inside the telescope; she often operates within margins measured in inches. (I'm not exaggerating; throughout the spacewalks, one astronaut is always attached to the arm, strapped into a foot restraint -- the other is the "free floater" - and we frequently hear the one on the arm calling Megan to adjust his position by an inch or two.)
And, when the spacewalks are all done, Megan is the one who will once again grab Hubble, move it out of the payload bay, and gently release it back into space.
Not only that - she's also the one who uses the robotic arm to do most of the inspecting of the shuttle's tiles and surfaces, looking for any possible damage. That was her job the day after launch, before they rendezvoused with Hubble. And that will be her job the day after they release Hubble.
So while the four spacewalkers all have a day inside in between their spacewalks (because the experience is so physically draining), Megan is "always on." Given all this, I think in some ways she must be the hardest working person on the crew.
The actual moment of the release turned out to be an anti-climax though, at least for everyone on the ground. Because of the shuttle's position at that moment, it was out of touch with Mission Control. So although the astronauts filmed and photographed the magnificent but bittersweet sight of Hubble slowly drifting a way into the blackness for the last time, no one else on the planet could witness this historic moment - much to the chagrin of a number of the reporters gathered in Houston.
The astronauts will downlink their video later, and bring the tapes home, and eventually we'll all get to see the replay. But the last sight of Hubble in "real time" was seen by only seven people - the crew of Atlantis. Since so many people have worked so long on the telescope (some for their entire careers), to be denied that sight was a shame. However, given how much more the astronauts are personally risking to effect the repairs, I guess they've earned that privileged view.
John Grunsfeld and Drew Feustal not only finished everything they were supposed to do today, they also managed to finish the one extra insulation blanket task that had been left over from yesterday (dropped from spacewalk #4 due to lack of time).
As the ultimate Hubble lover, I'm sure Grunsfeld was determined to get it all done. Since he couldn't force managers to let their spacewalk go long, I suspect he just did his absolute best to get everything else done so quickly that in the end they would almost have no choice but to let him add on yesterday's left-over blanket task.
I doubt he'd ever admit to this strategy, but I intend to ask him when we interview him after the flight.
So in the end the mission accomplished 100% of its goals. Tonight, Hubble has two brand-new instruments, two repaired instruments, new batteries, new insulation, new gyros, and a new guidance sensor. All the scientists are saying it's not merely like a new telescope, it's actually much more powerful (20 times, 80 times? estimates vary) than it has ever been.
Obviously the flight is not over. Tuesday Megan will release Hubble back into its own orbit, and it will slowly drift away--the last time ever that humans will lay eyes on the telescope.
Then the shuttle will fire engines to change its orbit into a more elliptical shape (right now they're in a nearly perfect circle over 300 miles up). By getting into an ellipse, from now on they'll spend portions of every orbit at a much lower altitude, which reduces their risk of being hit by micro-meteorites or space debris.
Megan will then spend the next two days inspecting their vehicle for damage that could affect their reentry. In case she finds a problem, the rescue shuttle and crew are still standing by in Florida--it ain't over yet.
Still, all the Goddard engineers I've been following for two years are celebrating tonight. They won't let down their guard completely until the astronauts are home safe, but with the spacewalks done--and 100% successful--their job is over.
It's definitely a bittersweet moment for them, though; many have worked together on Hubble for a decade, even two. One manager, Frank "Cepi" Cepollina has been involved with the Hubble project since the 1970s, before the telescope was even built.
They're all still high from a successful last spacewalk, but at some point soon their team will start to disband forever, and I'm sure they'll feel a letdown. It's the start of what promises to be some magnificent science for Hubble, but it's also the end of an era.
It's the last spacewalk of the last mission to Hubble. I'm pretty sure
it's also John Grunsfeld's last spacewalk of his long career, and
probably his last space mission ever.
True to form, Grunsfeld is pushing hard for managers to let him add to
today's tasks the insulation blanket replacement that they had to skip
yesterday (because fixing the STIS instrument went so extra long).
Last night we got a rare glimpse of some negotiating (or "horse
trading," as our sound man put it) between ground controllers and the
astronauts. They were trying to decide how to revise today's spacewalk
agenda, and how hard to push to add yesterday's skipped item (the
insulation blanket) to today.
We heard them go back and forth: Grunsfeld was saying, in effect, "I
want to try it," and the ground was basically saying "we'll see." I was
thinking that in the end, the astronauts are the ones up there, and I
wondered how hard Grunsfeld would actually force the issue.
He's not just an astronaut, he's a scientist, and no one seems to love
Hubble more than he. I have a feeling he would never openly rebel or
defy orders. But I suspect he will do his absolute best to get his way
- probably by being so fast and productive today that they'll have no
choice but to let him do the extra work.
Their first job today is to replace the Fine Guidance Sensor - a huge
(baby grand piano-size) instrument that is p art of Hubble's precise
pointing system.
We filmed Drew Feustal and John Grunsfeld practicing this over a year
ago on a device called "pogo" that makes it feel like the 800-pound
instrument is actually weightless. They have to learn how it feels to
move nearly a half-ton mass in space. (They use their fingertips and
watch out not to go too fast, because even though it's weightless, it
still has mass and momentum - and once moving, stopping it would be
really hard, it could easily smash into Hubble).
Today John's first step is to remove the old Fine Guidance Sensor - and
it is held in by the exact same kind if bolt mechanism that almost
doomed the Wide Field Camera 2 replacement on spacewalk #1.
Sure enough, when Grunsfeld went to undo the bolt, once again it
wouldn't budge. But after their experience trying to get Wide Field 2
out, today they just went immediately to the same last resort that Drew
Feustal did on the first spacewalk. Grunsfeld applied more force -
extremely slowly and carefully so as not to break the bolt - and he got
it free.
As of now, the new Fine Guidance Sensor is successfully in. So far, so good.
After a long delay involving breaking off the handle that wouldn't budge, and then finding his power tool was dead and having to go retrieve a spare tool, Massimino was behind by two hours, but finally everything was working.
He began removing the 111 screws, inserting his power screwdriver through one hole at a time in the Fastener Capture Plate (FCP). He really zipped through the process, making great time.
Once he got them all loose, he gingerly removed the FCP and--voila! Everyone's eyes are glued to the monitor, looking for any sign of screws drifting loose. But not a single one escaped--the contraption worked exactly as planned.
As Mass held the FCP in front of him, we could all see 100+ tiny screws trapped inside the device--floating, tumbling, spinning, all moving around like a bunch of jittery bees whose hive had been disturbed. It was an amazing sight--and also real easy to imagine how tough it would be to corral even a single one, had it gotten loose and headed into Hubble.
His next job was to carefully extract the circuit board, using a special tool to grab it so he doesn't touch its sharp edges and risk cutting his glove.
He then replaced the circuit board with a new one, and put a new cover onto the spectrograph. The new cover is held on by two simple latches instead of 111 screws.
By now Massimino's glove did have a cut which they feared would turn into a hole, and the spacewalk had gone so long that managers decided to skip the day's second job (installing new blanket insulation on the side of Hubble that faces the sun; the current insulation is degraded from years of sunlight).
So tonight one big question is: will they add installing the blanket insulation to tomorrow's spacewalk, or will it go undone forever? John Grunsfeld is chomping at the bit to add it to tomorrow, but everyone is concerned about their fatigue.
Before today ended, they tested the STIS instrument for "aliveness" and it is working. Today's spacewalk went over eight hours, probably another near-record.
Bottom line: two science instruments repaired in two days, the first time in history that humans have done such work. Astrophysicist Jennifer Wiseman from Goddard told us "this is an astounding victory for science--the telescope is now more powerful than it's ever been. It's a dream come true for the science community."
Everyone here is exhausted but thrilled, and they have high hopes that tomorrow's final Hubble spacewalk ever will be successful.
Well, the smoothness of yesterday has definitely not continued.
Today's hardest job is a repair similar to yesterday's: removing and replacing electronics circuit boards inside the Space Telescope Imaging Spectrograph (STIS).
Like yesterday, today's STIS repair involves removing lots of tiny screws without any breaking, stripping, getting stuck, or drifting loose into the telescope. Yesterday, Grunsfeld had 32 screws to deal with; today, Mike Massimino has 117 screws to get out. But Mass's work site is right in front of him, whereas Grunsfeld had to work around a corner and partially blind.
So far they're having problems. To install the big device used to trap the screws (Fastener Capture Plate), first Mass has to remove a handle that's in the way. First problem: a bolt holding the handle on refused to budge.
After repeated attempts failed, with all the other bolts removed, Massimino applied tape over the recalcitrant bolt (to trap any metal fragments), and yanked the handle as hard as he could--snapping the head off the bolt. He reported no visible metal splinters getting loose into Hubble.
Next, he's having problems installing the Fastener Capture Plate in just the right position. And just now, his power tool wouldn't come on--seemingly a dead battery.
No word yet, but I'm sure all this will cause them to run behind.
Well they finally got the doors closed. Today has seen an amazing turnaround; every day they make a list of every single little thing that is at all less than "perfect," down to the tiniest little detail. Usually these lists have many dozens of items; today's list literally had only two.
The morale change has been tangible. Last night people were really worried about today. The thinking was along the lines of "two spacewalks that were supposed to be routine turned out to be really quite difficult; today's is supposed to be extremely difficult at best, so what will happen? Do we even have a chance of success?"
Then the amazing happened--everything went nearly perfectly. The work Grunsfeld did truly set a historical precedent, and he actually got ahead of schedule. Everyone is thrilled and amazed; the scientists here are ecstatic.
However--there are two more spacewalks to go, with lots of critically important work left. Tomorrow is another repair like today's, trying to fix a spectroscope which, like today, involves removing lots of tiny screws and trapping them in the process.
I'm wondering whether today's momentum shift will hold, or whether they'll once again hit a wall of problems. We'll see!
Well, Hubble continues to surprise. The hardest job of the mission, repairing the Advanced Camera for Surveys (ACS), has gone amazingly well.
Working in extremely tight quarters, around a corner from his work site and partially out of view, John Grunsfeld has managed to complete the first actual instrument repair ever done in space.
First he cut through a metal grid and removed it, avoiding the sharp edges, and exposed a cover plate held on by 32 tiny screws. Next he partially loosened all the screws, then installed the Fastener Capture Plate, then removed all the screws.
After two years of worry, amazingly not a single screw stuck, or broke, or was stripped. And, captured inside the special tool, nothing floated loose inside Hubble where it could have damaged the telescope.
John then removed four electronic circuit boards, installed a new power supply box, and connected all the necessary wiring.
So far the new Cosmic Origins Spectrograph has been powered up and passed its electrical "aliveness test." A similar test still remains to be done on ACS.
After two difficult days that ran long (according to Dr. Matt Mountain, Director of the Space Telescope Science Institute, yesterday's spacewalk was the eighth longest in history), so far today's spacewalk is a stunning success--Grunsfeld is actually nearly two hours ahead of schedule, after completing a repair no one was certain was even possible.
And as I'm writing this, they just now announced that ACS, too, has passed its aliveness test.
All that remains is closing the doors (which have been troublesome before). Barring a problem there, it looks like Day 3 will turn out to be a huge success. After the past two days, everyone here was exhausted and dreading all that might go wrong today--this should give them all a huge lift.
Spacewalk #3 is today, which everyone has been saying for months will be the toughest.
The first two were "supposed" to be somewhat routine, but proved to be fairly difficult. So far, two unexpectedly hard days, both of which had problems and went long. Yesterday was one of the longest spacewalks on record (nearly eight hours; they plan on 6:30 and prefer not to exceed that for reasons of fatigue, health, and falling behind schedule from day to day).
First half of today is removing "Costar," the corrective lens originally installed in 1993 to fix Hubble's blurry vision. They now have it out without incident. Next step is to install a new science instrument, the Cosmic Origins Spectrograph, in its place. That's expected to be routine, but the way things have been going, who knows?
Second half of today is the nail-biter: repairing ACS, the Advanced Camera for Surveys. Grunsfeld will be trying to remove 32 tiny screws, then pull out four circuit boards, while working mostly blind.
They're now 1:45 into the spacewalk; it promises to be a very long day.
Spacewalk #2 is in progress.
Highest priority is to replace three Rate Sensor Units, which contain spinning gyroscopes that are used to point Hubble and keep it stable. Because the gyros constantly spin at 1,000s of revs per minute, they wear out (these have been in Hubble since 1999).
On this mission, they have brought a new improved design. Two of three went in okay--problem on the third. It does not seat properly.
They've tried it in two different locations without success. Next they abandoned the improved version, and went to a spare unit they have (one of the original design, removed from Hubble in 1999 and reconditioned).
It, too, has been unable to go in properly, but on the final attempt it just worked.
So they have now successfully replaced all Hubble's gyros, but because of the problems they are at least one hour behind on their spacewalk. Yesterday went long as well, but management allowed them to stay outside late. Today they'll probably have to get that permission again.
Their next task is to replace batteries, which should be easier.
They just got out of an almost big problem.
Their first big task on spacewalk #1 is to replace the Wide Field Camera 2, Hubble's main camera that has taken many of the famous images. It's held in by one big bolt, which refused to loosen on repeated attempts.
The next step was to apply more force at the risk of breaking the bolt (if the bolt breaks, the old Wide Field would stay in and the expensive new camera comes back to Earth without ever being installed--a huge disappointment).
On the final attempt, the bolt finally loosened.
In the end, the new Wide Field Camera 3 was successfully installed. But a job that was supposed to be routine turned out to be a real nail-biter, and the first spacewalk ran long.
No one is saying so out loud, but the feeling I sense here is that this is not a good omen for the start of the mission. But then again, engineers don't believe in omens.
Still, a day that no one expected to be troublesome turned out to be highly problematic and marked by an extremely tense close call. Hubble Program scientist Dave Leckrone said he aged five years during today's spacewalk.
Tomorrow is supposed to be "routine" (just like today was???) although the most important task--replacing Hubble's gyros, used to stabilize the telescope--is known to be "challenging" (astronaut-speak for damn difficult).
We're trying to catch up with Neil deGrasse Tyson, who we know is here
to see the launch. The problem is, Neil is a VIP, and the VIP group has
their own badges, their own escort, and their own agenda.
We have set up a general plan, but I'm basically reduced to waiting and
trying to spot him among the thousand or so people milling around. We
have three hours before launch; I fill the time walking circuits
through the crowd, scanning for Neil. I feel like a celebrity stalker...
Then I get word: he's here! I get to where he is, and find him
surrounded by folks wanting his attention. We manage a quick hello,
then he's off to do a live webcast; I'll get him for ten minutes when
that's done.
Once he's free, we hurry over to the roof of the CBS News building
where I'm set up. Along the way we discuss what we'll be doing; Neil is
incredibly busy and this is the first chance we've had to connect about
our update.
I have to say that Neil looks fantastic; he's impeccably dressed in a
beautiful dark suit. In this heat, he has my sympathy; we're all
sweating, but he's the only one who has to appear on camera.
Just before starting, Neil removes his NASA badge and empties his
pockets. Inexplicably, he pulls a full size microphone out of his
inside jacket pocket; seeing my quizzical look, he sighs and says "It's
a long story..."
We frame our shot, I feed him a question, and then Neil goes into
action. Whatever other talents and expertise the man has, he is an
awesome communicator; his energy is impressive (especially wearing that
suit in this heat!), and his passion is contagious.
We have no script -- he just riffs, and it is a joy to watch and
listen. He reflects on the huge impact Hubble has had on not only
science, but the public. And he mentions that it's been 40 years since
we went to the Moon, and it's time for America to stop resting on our
laurels and tackle new challenges.
I ask him to reflect on the risk, since it's very much on my mind, and
he is friends with some of the astronauts onboard. He reminds us that
risk is inevitable, but makes the point that one cannot evaluate
whether a risk is worth taking unless one considers the potential
reward - in the case of this mission to Hubble, the immense scientific
benefits that await if the telescope is upgraded.
And he finishes by noting that all the astronauts believe deeply in the
goal of furthering science through improving Hubble, so for them the
decision to take the risk is, if not easy, then certainly clear.
After 15 whirlwind minutes, Neil collects his pocket stuff and departs
to rejoin his VIP group for the launch. I never do hear the story of
why he's carrying that mysterious microphone around in his pocket...
We were out at the launch pad yesterday, and the shuttle seemed huge.
But from where we are today it looks impossibly tiny. We're three miles
away; no one is allowed any closer.
We have about three hours until launch. I'm concerned about our
visibility; there's a tree line at the horizon that blocks the lower
half of the shuttle from view.
I meet a CBS News producer, and ask if we can have some space on the
roof of their building; he's a fan of Nova, and he graciously agrees.
My Dad worked for CBS for nearly thirty years, and I'm thinking if he
were alive today, how cool he would think it is for me to be on the CBS
rooftop - perhaps Walter Cronkite covered launches from here, I don't
know...
I've sought out a few people we've filmed to watch the launch from our
vantage point: Goddard engineer Ed Rezac, astrophysicist Mario Livio
from the Space Telescope Science Institute, and tool engineer Matt
Ashmore (who helped create the Mini Power Tool, a device that will be
essential to the repairs planned for this flight).
These three are a good cross-section of the people who are making this
mission happen, a mix of hands-on engineers who deal with the smallest
details of physical hardware, and an astrophysicist who works with
concepts of matter and distance and time on a scale I can barely
comprehend.
Finally the moment arrives. It all proceeds in total silence; where we are, we don't hear the NASA commentary at all.
There's a flash of light, and huge clouds of smoke. Faster than I
expect, the shuttle rises into the air and starts climbing. Wow - it's
really fast. Strangely, all is still silent.
Then, many seconds later, the sound hits us; a low rumble like thunder,
that quickly gets louder and louder. At its peak, the ground and entire
building are shaking under our feet; it actually sounds like the air
itself is being physically ripped or torn somehow.
But the really surprising part is the light. The flame from the engines
is almost too bright to look at; it's like trying to focus on the sun.
Somehow video doesn't convey the intensity of the light.
Then, in less than 90 seconds, it's gone. Matt Ashmore has binoculars,
but I can't see anything. He tells us he can see the solid rocket
boosters fly off; amazing, I can't even find the fire in the sky
anymore.
Compared to TV, it's over much much faster. NASA's cameras can follow
it almost to the edge of space, so watching on TV the launch is an 8 or
9 minute experience. Not so in person.
We film some more reactions from our characters, then retreat to the air conditioning and wait for a press briefing.
An hour later, the briefing tells us that the launch was good - they've seen no debris come off and hit the shuttle.
It will take them a day or so to catch up with Hubble, and then their
work begins. I'm off to Houston, where the Goddard engineers will be
when the spacewalks begin.
We've been bussed to some anonymous building, and we're all lined up in a parking lot behind a rope, waiting for the astronauts. This is the "walkout" where they emerge in their launch suits, wave and get photos taken, then board their bus to the launchpad.
Again, it's a shot I've seen countless times before; they do it at the start of every flight. I can't help but think of the film of the Challenger crew walking out, and seeing Christa McAuliffe, just a couple of hours before the tragedy. In those days they launched in blue coveralls, basically no different than street clothes. Today they'll be in bright orange rescue suits, better equipped to survive if something goes wrong (and easier for rescue crews to spot them as well).
I'm trying to put these negative thoughts out of mind--no one else here seems worried.
We get word: "They're coming out of the elevator!" Then they emerge into the sunlight, waving and smiling. All the cameras are clicking, and people cheer. I think of how hard these astronauts and engineers have worked to get ready for this day, and how frustrated they've been by the postponements (a month from launch last fall, first Hurricane Ike, then a computer failure on Hubble that delayed the launch by six months).
They do look happy; the mission commander, Scooter Altman, who has flown before, told me for them the walkout feels like Christmas morning.
Then they board their astro van, and drive away, headed for the shuttle. We line up to get back in our buses, and head back to the Press Site.
In 16 years, producing or coproducing five documentary films on space, 11 hours of programming in total, I've never seen a single space launch in person. I've constructed "launch scenes" in films many times, but today will be my first experienced for real.
"There's excitement in the air here" might be a clichéd phrase, but at Cape Canaveral this morning it seems perfectly apt. There are many hundreds of people milling around in the Public Affairs building, probably thousands in total spread across the grass at the site. The place is buzzing.
The giant digital countdown clock is on the lawn in front of us, and scores of live broadcast and webcast booths are set up in tents. Some of the old guard (CBS, NBC) have air-conditioned permanent cinderblock buildings (which from the looks of them must date back to the early years of the Space Race and Apollo launches).
I've seen all this before, in old film footage from the Apollo years or watching shuttle launches on TV--but to actually be here feels very different.
For one thing, after working for two years following the astronauts and engineers conducting this mission, filming them and spending time together, I know the people who will be sitting on top of the rocket. I'm acutely aware of the danger involved, and it's not a good feeling; I'm actually pretty nervous.
Jets and helicopters are patrolling the air space around the launch site, and their noise overhead contributes to the sense of nervous energy.
Now we're off to board buses to see the astronauts walk out--basically a photo op before they board the shuttle. First we have to get all our bags, cameras, and gear "sniffed" by an explosives-sniffing dog.
It's extremely hot--in the mid-90s--and I'm sweating bullets. For some reason, the dog seems oblivious to the heat.
