Rose of Sharon

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

This story was originally published 14 Oct 1997.

Ernest Beecher was a genius. There are definitive degrees of intelligence in the world of academia and science, but Ernest Beecher surpassed these by all standards. Once, after all, did not become project manager of the Solid Rocket Boosters at Morton Thiokol without making such an impression on hundreds of people.

He drove casually through the launch-area gates at Kennedy Space Center on an early and unbearably frigid January morning, flashing his pass at the guards merely out of protocol. After months of delays for payload and weather, this shuttle mission was dragging into a first-rate headache, and he’d been to the launch complex so many times he knew many of the guards by name.

"Morning, Dr. Beecher. Kinda chilly this morning, isn’t it?" The guard wore a heavy jacket.

"Good morning, Alan. Hope you’re staying warm. Who’d’ve believed, fucking ice in Florida. I’m recommending we move this whole facility to the Bahamas."

"I certainly hope so. We can’t afford to keep the orbiter on the pad for much longer."

The guard nodded as he handed back Beecher’s pass, signaled open the gate, and watched as Beecher drove through. He parked in his assigned space neat the Assembly Building, grabbed his leather briefcase, and locked the door behind him as he checked his watch. “4:08… I can’t wait until they start launching these thing at night,” he muttered with frosted breath. His morning ritual of coffee and a ride to the launch pad for pre-launch checks lulled him into a near sleep. At Pad 39-B, he saw his already waiting crew chief, standing in clouds of words with the launch pad supervisor from NASA. Beecher yawned, and wondered why he was even out here, doubling double-checks he knew were already being made. If anything needed his approval, he could do it from the comfort of his office in the Launch Complex.

"Amazing what we do to put a teacher in space, huh Ernie?" Beecher wrinkled a smile towards Thiokol’s crew chief.

"Keep the public happy and we can put more satellites in orbit, I suppose." He glanced up the sharp concrete walls of the blast pit, towards the top of the Solid Rocket Booster. "How’s the pre-launch going?"

"Not bad. Fuel condition is nominal, servos all check out, and the computer guys are running the avionics’ checks. Launch still wants to know about the O-rings, though." Beecher massaged his temples with a gloved hand.

"You did, but Launch says that because of yesterday’s delay, everything has to be checked and signed off again this morning. Launch also mentioned some concerns about this morning’s temps. They don’t want to miss their window and they’re shooting for a late morning launch. 11:38 is official, I believe."

"Damn it." Beecher sighed heavily, masking his face in a cloud of vapor, and tried to remember how many Tylenol he had packed in his briefcase. "OK, send the paperwork back to the control center when it’s ready. I’ll send it up from there. If Launch talks to you again before I get the paperwork done, tell them that Thiokol has though about the temps and will approve the launch. Make it sound official, though." The crew chief gave him a weak smile and a thumbs-up, turned and went back up the pad to catch up with the NASA supervisor. Beecher inhaled and exhaled more billows of cloud as he walked back over to the mobile computer truck to check the status of his SRBs.

What he found did not meet well with his criteria for launch. He knew it was cold that morning, but he’d been unable to get a weather report on the radio as he drive in. The figure he saw only magnified the cold he already felt through his heavy coat: 26 degrees. “Fucking ice in Florida.” He received the forms for launch approval from the technician in charge of the mobile unit and made his way inside to use the desk. He found the lines he had to sign to endorse the launch, then pulled back his pen when he noticed the three line space for conditions. “Thank you, God,” he muttered, at the same time writing, “Launch approved only if average temperature rise to 32 or above.” He stuffed the papers into his briefcase. Beecher tried to take some relief in this provision, but all he could do was shake his head as he readied himself to face another long day.

Riding back to the launch control facility offered him nothing to improve his day. The data he’d received at Pad 39-B only served to deepen the dread he had of another coming delay. Thiokol had no standing protocol for such low temperatures at launch times. Scenarios had been simulated, of course, but the results were never applied. Beecher knew all about these problems, but he need to find answers to the growing concern in his head. He reached to the floor and picked up his briefcase, opened it to the zippered pouch within the lid and removed a heavy manila folder. “Authorized Personnel ONLY.” The stamps that covered the face of the folder would have scared some of this that Beecher worked with that had the clearance with Thiokol to read what he held now.

Beecher began scanning the documents within the folder, not really reading since he’d been party to the writing of its main body. His eyes slowed as the details of the low temperature testing of the boosters’ O-rings was being summarized. He read with narrowing eyes, his heartbeat picking up ever so slightly at the words he knew were there. His mouth slowly mouthed the words that he’d approved seemingly and eternity ago, approved them, he now though, without a notion that the tests would ever be applied: “Tests do not eliminate safe usage at low temperatures, but the members of the testing team do not recommend operation under such conditions… operation limits are set at the already stated nominal temperatures.”

‘Nominal temperatures’ stared back from the page, followed by the signatures of all the team members, his crabbed signature on the Team Head line below the rest. Beecher knew full well that ‘nominal’ for a launch was between 55 and 70 degrees, but NASA had accepted his signature for a previous launch at 51 degrees and he hoped they’d trust him now when the conditions were anything but ‘nominal’. He tried to throw the folder closed, even though he knew slamming a paper report was impossible, and felt a little better at putting the report out of sight. His lips curled down again, though, as the black "CONFIDENTIAL" stamp place diagonally on the manila cover stared back at him. Beecher knew that it was his position that had gotten this report classified, and it would be his ass if the launch got held up because of something he was forgetting to mention to the launch officials.

Beecher sipped at his Styrofoam cup of coffee, a vain attempt to keep warm against the Florida chill, closed his eyes and imagined millions of one-dollar bills being shoveled into a rocket flame. The image played across his mind as the discourse behind it roared through the noise of the vehicles. He walked across the parking lot to the Launch Control building, the progressive commands from his superiors ringing the entire way. “We need to launch this Tuesday, if not before Beecher. We got payload that needs to be in orbit and people who are sick of paying for their satellites to sit in storage inside that orbiter.” “Millions of dollars, you understand, are being thrown away as that vehicle sits on the launch pad. You do what is necessary to get that shuttle into orbit.” “Just get it done.”

Voices of power pounded him from all sides as he came walking through the doors to the launch control building at 6:00. As soon as he had ditched his coat and gloves in the contractor’s lounge, Beecher encountered a page from the Launch Controller. “Dr. Beecher, Dr. Allen would like to see you in the Control Room.”

"Thank you, I’m headed there right now." He walked towards the control center, oblivious to the hundreds of technicians and runners that filled the fluorescently lit corridor. He’d seen reporters crawling through each other outside in front of the building, bustling for a better camera angle and a shot with the reporter in-frame with the launch complex. He’d shivered once as he looked at them from the comfort of the car, fearful of the questions they might ask him about the conditions and how the SRBs could perform, shivered because for once, for the first time in a very long time, he knew he wouldn’t be able to answer them. Now, inside, he wondered if these newsmongers, those who understood what the buzz around the control center was about, could see the ambivalence waking in his eyes.

Launch Control was teeming with light and computerized voices, a flurry of motion that curiously stunned him as he entered the room. “Sir, I’m afraid you need a Level One clearance to be in this area.” Beecher was suddenly jerked to a halt by the restraining grip, his hand still on the swinging door. Lost in his thoughts, he had missed the NASA security officer standing immediately outside the entrance to the Control Room. He apologized and pulled his badge from his coat pocket, clipping it on his outer pocket. The officer inspected the badge and checked his clipboard, smiled a firm smile, and left with a nod, leaving Beecher lost again in his muddled thoughts.

"Beecher!" His sub-consciousness grasping at the familiar voice turned his head to view a pale-blue shirted man approaching from the levels above. Beecher reflexed into greeting the figure with a handshake and acceptance of fresh coffee. "So what’s Thiokol’s stance on the launch?"

Beecher just stood there, searching for the persona he needed to front for the official. Finally, as Dr. Allen was about to ask him if he was alright, Beecher smiled brightly and presented the papers he was holding. “We’re a go,” he stated intently, making a mental note that it may have sounded just a bit too certain.

"No problems with the temperatures, then?" Dr. Allen began reading over the report Beecher had drafted with his engineers at the launch pad.

"As long as the temperatures clear 32 degrees, we’re confident of the SRBs performance in a launch. The O-rings have been tested extensively at freezing and perform with acceptable results." He thought he was getting defensive, but Allen only nodded and closed the report.

"Fine by me. The boys upstairs, " Allen jabbed a thumb at the observer’s booth above the launch control, "and at Mission Control may want to talk to you about this yet, but as of now, we’re set for an 11:38 launch." Beecher nodded and began to follow Allen back up the stairs to the control desk at the top of the tier of computers. They talk for an hour, between frequent interruptions from ground observers and communications from Mission Control in Houston. Allen probing for numbers about the O-rings, Beecher spewing company by-lines about confidence in their system. Much of the remaining hours until launch were spent in the same way as various representatives of NASA, sub-contractors, and politicians paraded though the control room.

By 11:00, Beecher was burned out from all the dodging and rhetoric-pumping he’d been party to for the interim hours until launch time. Now, as final countdown was engaged, the controllers were busy scrutinizing every bit of information that came across hundreds of computers. As it had been all morning, the main concern was the temperature; readings on the inner side of the SRBs has been estimated to be around 28 degrees. Even if he allowed for five more degrees as a tolerance, which he had, O-ring performance was well below ‘nominal’ specifications. He was beginning to rationalize the questions away again, fumbling a cigarette into his mouth as he stepped out a side entrance to Launch Control.

"But it’s still within operating parameters," he said out loud, catching himself by surprise, recovering, then stooping to pick up the cigarette that had fallen from his mouth when he’d spoken. His Zippo clicked open, attracting the attention of a young boy standing just beyond the fence in front of him.

"What? Uh, no, I’m with the company that makes the booster rockers, the tall white things mounted on the side." He felt his mind spinning again. Beecher had never had to deal with children before.

"You make the solid rocker boosters?” Beecher noted the boy’s jacket, a white patch with the shuttle crossing an American flag and seven names of the astronauts embroidered around the edges.

"That’s right. Where are you from?" He inhaled the heated smoke, burning in his lungs against the cold.

"Chicago. My parents brought me here to watch the launch. Have you ever seen one before?"

"Hundreds." Beecher suddenly felt old. The actual number was over 200 if he counted all the tests and other un-manned projects he’d been involved with.

Beecher was glad for the shift in conversation, away from his role in the day, away from the unease that infected his entire body. “Yes, I’ve met quite a few astronauts, actually. In fact, I’ve met some of the people on Challenger today.” So impressionable, he thought. He’d be impressed if I told him I talked to the launch controller today.

"Did you meet Christa McAuliffe, the teacher?" The boy was gripping the link fence, glancing occasionally to watch the countdown clock as it neared zero.

"No, I never met Mrs. McAuliffe, but I know she’s in good hands." The loudspeaker above the control building blared towards the bleachers announcing T minus 10 minutes. "Sorry son, I have to go back inside now." Beecher crushed his cigarette and turned toward the entrance.

"OK, mister. Her, I’ll say hi to Mrs. McAuliffe for you in a couple days. She’s going to be on TV you know."

Beecher smiled weakly at the boy, waved, and head back inside, lighted the stairs to the observation deck. He smiled as he took up residence beside his crew chief, realizing that the boy was probably going to be involved in the ground link to talk to McAuliffe. The chief nodded with an interrogating look as Beecher entered. Beecher shook his head and muttered “Classroom in Space people” and then indulged a few Thiokol employees who had the day off to watch the launch. When he turned to the side opposite his chief, Beecher was met by a tall, brown-haired man.

"Dr. Beecher, I’d like you to meet Steve McAuliffe, Sharon’s husband." Beecher shook hands with the well-dressed man. The crew chief herded a small boy in front of Steve. "This is their son, Scott," Beecher shook hands with the boy, "and their youngest, Caroline." The girl looked to Beecher to be no older than six or seven.

"I’m sorry," he started, embarrassed, "but I didn’t catch your wife’s name."

Steve chuckled. “It’s all right, everyone on the news calls her Christa, the teacher in space. It’s still hard to believe that Reagan wants to send a social studies teacher up there.” He smiled broadly, bent down to pick up his daughter, tipped his fingers to his temple and turned back to the window facing the launch pad.

"T minus two minutes." The countdown was into its final stages and Beecher could just imagine the frantic air below them in the control room. Time seemed to drag, the clock refusing to proceed forward as Beecher strained to see the launch pad. "Here." His crew chief handed him a set of binoculars, a cumbersome set that brought the space vehicles into sharp focus. He looked at the forward crew area of the shuttle knowing he couldn’t see inside, scanned down the length of the orbiter, then over the skirt area of the right booster rocket. With a trained eye, he surveyed what little stuck out from the claws that held the entire assembly upright.

"T minus ten seconds." Beecher jumped at the announcement, waiting for the next steps. "Nine, eight, seven, begin ignition sequence," sparks began to fly below the main engines of the space shuttle, sending a shudder of energy through the craft as its three nozzles erupted in sequence. "Five." Beecher could see the supporting structure begin to roll back from the assembly as he re-adjusted his binoculars. "Four." The motion of Steve McAuliffe hoisting his son up to a better vantage caught his attention. "Three, begin booster ignition." The claws securing the seven astronauts to Earth relaxed their grip, exposing the bottom skirting of the booster rockets. "Two." As he had for every mission before, Beecher ran through the events happening inside the rockets, pressures building, fuels and catalysts mixing, physics acting at the boundaries of human knowledge. "One." At the last second, he could feel thousands of people at Kennedy copy him as he held his breath.

The image in the binoculars shook as millions upon million of pounds of thrust crushed the Earth below the rockets. “Liftoff. We have liftoff of STS-51L, and the first teacher in space.” Beecher released his breath and checked his watch; 11:38, right on schedule. Company sabers are sheathed once again, he thought. His head rotated upwards with the rest of the masses in the stands and around him, watching the plume of fire propel a diminishing white and red blotch towards the cold of space. When almost a minute had passed, the engines were burning at just below capacity and Beecher knew that the throttle-up command would be issued soon. The two white pillars he was responsible for were well into their highest pressure points, sending a sense of relief through his body at their continued performance, a sense of certainty in a day that had plagued him with questioning.

"Throttle up to one hundred and four percent Challenger." The announcer’s voice had changed as Mission Control in Houston had taken over the flight.

"Going with throttle up." The beep that followed the transmission signaled that it was from the shuttle. Beecher recognized the voice of Michael Smith, Challenger’s pilot. He’d met Smith the day before when the launched had been scrubbed. Nice guy, Beecher thought, very good pilot. Beecher turned to leave the observation deck, the dejected faces of the astronauts from the day before in his mental eye. "Uh oh."

Beecher stopped dead before the beep came through, Smith’s voice ringing in his head. He waited for the rest of the transmission to the ground controllers, but nothing came. Behind him, he could hear lungs stop full, feel eyes focus on something above them. And as he turned to look out of the observation window for the last time, he caught the puzzled looks on two children and their father, gazing at a budding, white cloud, speared through by a criss-crossing rocket, out of control.