THE SHUTTLE ENDS A 30-YEAR RUN

Getting this piece of writing posted on this site turned out to be almost as complicated as getting a shuttle off the ground.  I started the piece in January, on the 25^th anniversary of the Challenger disaster  but I fell asleep before the finish line, forgot about it and never finished or posted it. Then, last week, I got an email from a long-lost Post colleague who was in the city room the day the Challenger exploded and mentioned the events to me as one of his strongest memories of over 20 years of working at The Post. When I went to return his note and point him to my own posted memories of the day, I searched this site but couldn’t  find the story. It took searches of at least six terabytes of backup hard disk drives before I figured out what happened and discovered the file I had started. I finished it once, lost that file, and then had to repeat the search before I found the original file again. What follows the result of this process, I’m not sure it makes any sense, but it does record an important moment in my newspaper career – the biggest “scoop” I ever managed to dig up, 

* * *

The last American space shuttle landed safely yesterday, triggering the dispersal of the nation’s manned space program to museums around the nation. The program – 135 flights, 133 of them successful, over 30 years – was based around a system conceived and designed by a huge committee made up entirely of overpaid engineers.  What they created worked – well within its anticipated 10 percent failure rate – but failed to achieve its primary mission: to carry stuff into space economically.

It was a beautiful system that was doomed by an impossible mission. In the end, it simply was too expensive to get each ounce of cargo into orbit with humans – who were usually unnecessary baggage -- hitching rides aboard each flight. The weight of the safety systems required for manned flights took away too much cargo capability. Beancounters! If only they had realized a generation ago that space travel would require two separate systems, one for lifting cargo and another for getting humans into orbit. 

The real cost of the shuttle will be how much political support it cost. In the past decades even plans for the proper duel system are in jeopardy. The current plan is to allow private for-profits to develop the new system. But that would still require the investment of billions of government dollars that, at least right now, are not there, So the globe’s most suiccessful space program is left to beg rides aboard a Russian fleet of ancient robot ships that do the job cheaper. At least until the Russians discover they have a monopoly and raise their rates like good capitalists. Ah, payback.

But it’s not really as bad as all that. The nation almost certainly has a vigorous secret manned space program that is well funded within the huge, opaque military budget. Remember , the F-117 Stealth fight-bombers flew in secret for almost 20 before thepublic was told about them. And America’s most important military asset is its fleet of incredibly successful spy satellites, some of which are almost certainly manned and possibly armed. [The Chinese are already in orbit testing a similar system.]

Anyway, here’s my story  …

It was a Tuesday and I was working rewrite for The Post on the 5:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. shift. In addition to rewrite, I also replaced the city editor on his days off and occasionally covered the space shuttle beat. [Sounds like Sgt. Friday, doesn’t it?] 

Since the first shuttle missions, when I watched liftoffs from Cape Canaveral, filed stories and then flew to California in time to see the first few landings at Edwards AFB in the high California desert , shuttle missions had become routine.

But just for the record, liftoffs were never routine and if you never got the opportunity to see one in person, you missed one of mans' most awe-inspiring -- and noisy -- survivable explosions. on the other hand, witnessing a shuttle land was like watching paint dry. You stand around until you hear two sonic booms, wait for a press release confirming the brakes worked and everyone aboard remained alive. Then you got in your car, told the paper to run the holding story you filed the night before. Then you went home. 

But shuttle blast offs were unforgettable. Veteran NASA reporters told me they were almost as good, but different, then the start of Saturn 5 moon missions -- but the Saturn still stands as the most powerful machine ever built.

The shuttle ignited about three miles away from the press site, the closest a civilian could get tothe lauch pad. After an uncomfortable night in a mosquito-infested swamp filled with snakes and alligators while spending hours staring at a huge digital clock slowly countdown to zero, the first thing you saw when a mission began was a distant light. It was white, almost as bright as the Florida sun and unusually pure -  like what you imagined what the very first nanosecond of a nuclear blast must look like. But this flash stopped growing soon after it appeared and seemed to stay motionless for several long seconds. What you were seeing was the shuttle’s only true advancement to the science of rocketry – three main engines that burned a mixture of super-cold liquid oxygen and hydrogen and were the first capable of being throttled up and down. What they produced was clean thrust – so pure that it had no visible flame and left behind only steam water.

Finally, the light seemed to explode as all at once the two dependable solid fuel boosters bolted to the shuttle’s huge fuel tank ignited and set off the main event. The bright white light quickly disappeared behind an expanding cloud of dirty brown smoke. Simultaneously, the huge bolts holding the huge machine down exploded open and let it all loose. And it moved skyward impossibly slowly.

Everything was quiet where you stood and watched the shuttle gain momentum and start flying. Then, just at the moment when you first sensed the expanding cloud wasn’t going to crash back to ground, the noise arrived. But not all at once. Actually, you first felt it first. Not in your feet, as you expected, but in your body which shook back and forth at a vibration rate much faster than you ever experienced. It was only then that your ears started working and you heard a noise like nothing you ever heard before. It was loud all right, but surprisingly very sharp and crackling. Then the ground shook and the experience reached its peak. All that was left to do was watch the machine climb into the sky and leave behind an odd trail of exhaust that wasn’t straight, but weaved slightly back and forth in reaction to the horizontal winds aloft. You couldn’t help but scream. I did each time, I think it was five launches. There certainly were times when being a reporter was one of the greatest jobs in the world.

There, I’ve got that out of my system. Now back to the Challenger story.  

By the 25^th flight, I had long stopped even asking if they wanted me to go to Florida anymore.   The shuttle program had become routine and the paper usually used small wire stories marking just the start and the end of most missions. The mission that day was interesting only because one of the astronauts was a civilian – a teacher from New England. My own interest was more focused on Astronaut Judy Resnik, an experienced astronaut who had been the second American woman to be launched – as well as the first Jew, a fact she hated every time it was ever mentioned. Resnik was one of only two astronauts I had ever developed any kind of relationship with and I enjoyed watching her career develop.

There was so little interest in the flight that the launch wasn’t broadcast on any of the networks. Since The Post’s building on South St.  didn’t have cable or satellite TV, I covered the launch by calling a special NASA telephone number for reporters that allowed me to listen to communications between the crew and mission control together with the usual uninteresting NASA press narration. 

I listened to the launch on a phone on the city desk since it was one of few with a speaker phone. I’ve listened to enough launches to know when the routine launch communications become unusual. I heard the now famous crew acknowledgment “Go at throttle up” followed by a spooky nothing. Then, a few endless seconds later  the sound of the NASA narrator admitting “Obviously a major malfunction.”  I stood up and shouted for everyone to be quiet --  but no one listened. I tapped the shoulder of Dick Belsky, my good friend and city editor, and told him: “I think something’s happened. Something really bad.”

Dick knew me well enough to know that I was serious. We both quickly glanced at the clock. It was right on deadline. “How do you know?” he asked. 

“I heard it.”

“On the phone?”

“Yeah.” But I knew he didn’t really believe me.

He shouted for Vinnie Musetto, the Asst. Managing Editor who was scribbling on layout sheets like he always did as deadlines approached. He glanced at his green glowing computer terminal and said “It’s not on the wires. How do you know?”

I was beyond pissed, trying to listen to the phone and convince editors that I had heard what I had heard. Vinnie was direct: “I don’t believe you,” he said. “Why isn’t it on TV?”

“How the fuck do I know?” I said and then noticed that the TV above the city desk wasn’t  even turned on. “Oh shit. Turn on the fucking TV.”

Then we all watched the usual game shows for half a minute before the networks got  their act together and cut into their regular programming with the bulletin. We all watched together for the first time that amazing tape of the deadly fireball that engulfed the shuttle and then the two booster rockets as they hurtled uncontrolled through the sky. 

“What about the astronauts?” Vinnie asked. 

“They’re dead,” I said, never taking my eyes off the screen.

 “Are you sure? How can you tell?”

“I’m sure. They’re dead.” They had to be. It was over a minute after launch and they were too high and going too fast to be alive. [Actually, history proved that I was wrong about that. Their cabin had survived the explosion intact and they were all alive and functioning as what was left of the shuttle tumbled through the air and hit the ocean surface. They knew they were going to die for two minutes before they hit the water. NASA doesn’t like to talk about it much.]

The next hour went by in a flash. I remember noting, while watching a rerun of the disaster, that the shuttle’s exhaust trail seemed to be pushed to one side a lot more than usual just before the explosion.  Shuffling paragraphs from a handful of wire stories that moved immediately, I wrote a few paragraphs of my own and handed them over to Mike Berlin, an experienced fellow rewriteman who actually put together the story that made the edition. 

As Mike finished up and passed the number of the story to Belsky for editing, Managing Editor Ken Chandler tapped my shoulder and, handed me a wad of cash and a set of airline tickets. He told me I was I was booked on a flight to Melbourne, Florida (the closest airport to the Kennedy Space Center) that left in an hour. A car was waiting for me downstairs. 

The next thing I remember was sitting on the jet airliner as it taxied to the runway at LaGuardia Airport.  I’ve always loved to fly. I’ve been up in many private planes and as a reporter, I’ve flown a fighter jet with the Blue Angels, traveled at twice the speed of sound 70,000 feet off the ground on the Concorde and spent 12 hours on a Hurricane Hunter turboprop repeatedly flying through the eye of a force-five hurricane. But that day’s flight to Melborne was the only time I’ve ever been scared in an airplane. I was literally a "white-knuckle flier" the entire flight.

   

I had no luggage, just a manila envelope filled with blank notepads, sharpened pencils and all-important expense forms that a copyboy had handed me as I went out the door. I also had a copy of the newspaper I had grabbed as I left the cityroom. It had literally been “hot off the press” when I first touched it but it had cooled down when I first looked at it on the airliner.

But it looked hot. Vinnie had cleared the cover and colored the wood--  the name of the front page headline – solid red. There was no picture -- there had not been enough time. Just  giant red letters screaming the stunning news. SPACECRAFT BLOWS UP – SEVEN CREW DEAD.”  Inside was the story. Mike Berlin shared the byline with me.

The press facilities at the space center had grown up since the first few launches. The swamp-floored canvas tents had been replaced by a temporary domed structure built to handle sparse press corps. In the days before cellphones, when you planned to attend a launch, you would have the telephone company install a telephone line for you. Now every press conference was attended by about 100 accredited reporters, who then fought for the five pay phones available to file their stories.

It didn’t really matter the first day because there was a giant lack of news and I was limited to filing a few mood pieces that I was very unhappy with and assumed the editors back in New York were also. Thursday started out the same way. A late afternoon press briefing was so boring that I walked out early to get on line for the phones. But I caught the eye of a NASA engineer I had gotten to know a little in the early days when launch delays were celebrated by all at local bars and a strip bar on Coco Beach. I don’t remember his name now and doubt I recalled it then but he called me over. “We found out what happened,” he whispered. “We looked at the launch tapes taken from the other side and saw a flame coming out from one of the joints of a booster. It burned a hole in the external tank.” And he walked away.

It made sense after I thought about it for a few minutes. The booster rockets had been designed to be reusable and were actually long tubes made up of attached segments. I put it together with the wind shear I had seen on that early replay (and confirmed earlier in the day with a NASA spokesman). I grabbed a press book of the shuttle design and looked at how the segments were joined together. It made sense! What a story!

I looked at my watch. It was right on deadline for the first edition. Then I looked at the line for the pay phones. Maybe 50 reporters. I spotted a NASA secretary sitting at a desk in a cubicle. She had a phone! I raced over to her, reached into my pocket and pulled out a $100 bill. “I’ll give you this if you let me use that phone to make a five minute collect call to my paper.” She got up and let me sit down.

I called my editor, Al Ellenberg and explained what I had. I vividly remember his exact words. “That’s quite a story you’ve got, son. Hold on.”

I didn’t have much and it didn’t take long to file it all to one of the paper’s skilled rewrite-people. We made the first edition and it ran all day under my byline. And it was a scoop. It took two days for the high-and- mighty New York Times to match it. But their reporters didn’t go to bars and topless joints. 

I saw the paper on the newsstands at the airport when I got home the next day. And that first story basically held up. I misstated the name of the booster joint, calling it a “filled joint” instead of “field joint.” I also missed the cold weather angle. But that important piece of the puzzle wasn’t discovered until the investigation committee met in Washington a year later. 

Chandler made me cover that also. Thanks for the memories Ken. Incidentally, they let me expense the $100 bribe to the secretary.