December 29, 1984
Now in her space suit, Vanessa enters the payload bay, tethered to the ship.
She moves toward the forward bulkhead to inspect the right-side latches. She tries not to think about Hank. She tries not to think about what Donna must be going through right now. She tries not to think of baby Thea and the fact that Thea will never remember the way Hank held her on Thanksgiving. The way Donna kept asking to take her, and Hank always shook his head. “No,” she’d heard Hank say. “Please don’t. Let me have her.” Thea will never remember the way it felt to be in her father’s arms like that. Her father will be
someone people tell Thea about.
She can’t stand to think of it.
She thinks, instead, of Griff. She thinks of Lydia.
And she thinks of Joan.
When she gets to the forward bulkhead, a shudder runs through her. She can see the other side of the hole on the forward bulkhead. But then, in addition, the payload bay door is bent. It took a hit, most likely from the debris that flew from the explosive cords.
“Houston, the right payload bay door is warped. I am going to attempt to manually latch it closed, but I am not positive I can get the edges to make contact.”
Joan’s voice comes through: “Navigator, copy. The PLBDs can withstand some measure of variation. We would like you to get started so we can assess.”
Vanessa looks around. The doors make the shape of a capital I on the top of the payload bay, and when closed, they are held together with a total of thirty-two latches. Eight on the forward bulkhead, eight on the aft bulkhead, and sixteen down the centerline. First, she’s going to pull the forward bulkhead latches closed as best she can.
The left set of four have been closed electronically. So she moves to the right set, beginning with the one farthest from the center. The first has jammed, but she knows what to do. In almost any other scenario up here, this might even be Vanessa’s shining moment. This is what she’s here for. The
mechanics.
She grabs the tool kit from behind the thermal blanket and floats back to the first latch. She takes out the ratchet wrench. There can be no rushing in space, really. And in this moment, she is grateful that she is forced to work through the problem methodically. She has trained for this moment. Back on Earth, she learned where to put her right hand, where to put her left hand, how to get into the foot restraints, and how to brace herself for maximum leverage. She gets into position and begins.
How is she going to be an astronaut without Steve? How is she going to get home without him? She can’t. She can’t do any of this. She’s going to fuck this up and they are all going to die. She can’t do this.
Vanessa inhales sharply.
Maybe rushing would be better. Maybe, if she didn’t have a moment to think, it would all be easier. Gravity is underrated. It gives us something to fight against.
She tries to clear her mind. She aligns the ratchet wrench to the gearbox and begins to turn.
Steve had told Vanessa, at one point, that even though he was the younger of two brothers, it felt like she was his little sister.
Vanessa had replied that she, too, felt like a little sister, always the focus of the attention between them, always asking too much of him. But Steve had corrected her. He said he got something out of it, too. “Talking to you, hearing what you’re going through, it makes me realize how far I’ve come since I was your age. And hell, I might be a great astronaut. But if all I’m doing with what I’ve learned is using it for myself, what kind of legacy is that?
“This way, I’ll help you, and you’ll help another ASCAN, and she’ll help another, and on it will go. And then one day, decades from now, when we get to Mars, I’ll be long gone. But I’ll still be a part of it.”
She turns the gearbox, pulling it as tight as she can. The four latches close.
The firm connection of the latches feels good in her hand.
“Navigator, we see the first gang of four is done. Thank you.”
Vanessa looks up. The bend in the door is preventing the doors from making total contact. She puts the ratchet wrench back on the gearbox and tries to turn it farther, pulling the door in as much as possible.
If the gap between the doors is sizable enough, the shuttle will burn up upon reentry into the atmosphere. Vanessa will never see Joan again.
She tries to release her jaw and focuses on her breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. She knows if she repeats the same pattern of breath, she can occupy her mind enough to stop her from thinking about the rest of it.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
She continues turning.
It is dark inside the payload bay, and there is still much to be done.
Joan is not going to say it out loud. No one is. But if the forward bulkhead latches cannot pull the door flat, things are going to take a turn.
Ray stands up. “Flight, Surgeon. I’m concerned about Griff’s heart rate.”
This is the fourth time Ray has noted this, but now his tone is calmer and less animated, which has an inverse effect. Joan turns to him. She can tell from his pale face and wide eyes that he’s exerting a lot of effort to control
himself.
Jack: “What are we at?”
“Twenty-one bpm and it is growing more irregular.”
“How irregular?”
Ray checks the instruments again and swallows.
As Ray begins to speak—his face somber—it is as if someone has turned down the volume of Joan’s world. Every word exchanged between Ray and Jack feels muted—muffled and unreal. She can see Ray frown. She can see Jack slam his hand down on the top of his console.
But she cannot make out a single word.
Later, she will realize that she actually did hear all of this. That she stored it away to process when she could face it. It will come back to her in flashes much later.
“His temperature has fallen.” “We’ve lost heart-rate signals.” “Do not tell Ford.” “Even if she got to him in the next thirty seconds, I don’t believe—”
But right now, it is as if Joan has left her body. Her view is from ten feet up in the air.
She can see herself in her chair. Her hair falling out of her ponytail, her eyes bloodshot.
Now everything is moving backward. She can see herself coming in to work this morning, then going to bed last night. She can see herself waving goodbye to Griff in the parking lot at JSC before he went into quarantine. She can see him talking to her in the pool at Steve’s house, swimming up to her.
She can see him greeting her that first day at the apartment complex.
She can see the past, but it is now tinged with the excruciating inevitability of the present moment.
How has she never seen where this was headed, when it was so painfully
obvious?
You absolute child, she thinks. He was hit with shrapnel from an explosion two hundred miles above Earth, and you thought he’d survive?
An abrupt and violent silence crashes into the room, and she snaps back into the moment.
She sees the blood drain out of Ray’s face. “Flight, Surgeon. John Griffin is dead.”
Joan can feel the liquid iron core of the Earth pulling her toward it, down into the depths of a hell she does not believe in.
Hank is gone. Steve is gone. Now Griff is gone, too.
He’d once told her she was a romantic, and she hadn’t believed him. How had he known her better than she’d known herself? The Joan he saw that day had been closer to who she was than the Joan she had seen in the mirror her entire life.
Vanessa’s voice comes in clear: “Houston, this is Ford. I have attempted to tighten the latches but cannot pull the doors flush. We have an approximately one-centimeter gap.”
Joan closes her eyes. She can’t understand how she’s going to get past this moment.
She squeezes the pen in her hand so hard it cracks, the sharp edge cutting into her palm.
She has her whole life to grieve. She has just a few more hours here at this console.
“Houston, come in. This is Navigator, do you read?” Vanessa says.
Pull it together, Goodwin.
Joan has never called herself Goodwin in her own head before. And now she wonders who’s speaking to her.
“Don’t tell her,” Jack says. “We have to focus on the latches.”
Joan looks at him. She knows it is Vanessa’s only chance at staying focused enough to save herself and Lydia. It’s what has to be done.
But she’s not sure she can bear to do it.
Let’s fucking go.
“Navigator, this is Houston,” she says. “We believe you should move on,
given the time constraints. Assuming the rest of the latches connect down the line, we believe we have viability.”
“I disagree, Houston. I believe that I should keep trying to—”
“Navigator, move on. We do not have time.”
“Are you okay, Goodwin?” Vanessa says. “You do not sound well.”
Jack looks at Joan. He shakes his head. “Our job is not to tell her the truth, our job is to get her home.”
“Navigator, yes. We are still confident about the PLBDs at this time.
Please continue to the eight aft bulkhead latches.”
Joan can feel that her soul has gone dormant. Her mouth is moving, but her heart is not here anymore. She knows she will get through this—these hours will pass with one outcome or another, and she will physically survive it. But she is not sure, when it is all over, if she will ever come back to herself.
Vanessa can hear the unsteadiness in Joan’s voice. But if Joan does not want to tell her what’s causing it, there’s a reason.
“Roger that,” Vanessa says.
Vanessa maneuvers over to the aft bulkhead.
Each one of the eight latches snaps into place sequentially. That is sixteen of thirty-two down. Both the top and bottom bars of the capital I are done, however imperfectly.
She imagines the feel of her feet on the tarmac, the relief of seeing the doctors rush into the flight deck to save Griff and Lydia. She thinks of the way the air will smell to her, full of dirt and fuel.
Steve had told Vanessa that getting off the ship was like walking into your house after a long vacation. That you will get that rare moment of smelling the familiar scent of Earth, before you grow too used to it again to sense it.
She’d been looking forward to that.
She scoffs to think of how much she’d been looking forward to this entire mission. How she’d protested against being “only” a mission specialist. How she’d begged for the chance to be a pilot.
But, of course, it had been Steve who had told her she’d deserved the chance to fly the shuttle someday. Steve who’d lobbied for her. Who’d told her he would keep at it until Antonio understood.
She moves on to the centerline latches. Thankfully, the first four close easily. She continues to the next four.
Steve had cheated on his wife ten years ago. It was one time. He’d been drunk. He never forgave himself for it, even though, after he confessed to Helene, she gave him a chance to make it up to her. And he did. Make it up to her.
Vanessa didn’t quite understand either side of it—the betrayal of someone or the forgiveness possible. But Steve had said that over time, she would understand both. Once she’d loved someone long enough, she’d understand that anything is possible, that she was capable of worse and greater acts than
she knew.
He’d taught her that, too.
She closes the last latch in the gang. Twenty-four down. Eight to go. If she
can get all eight done, it is reasonable to assume that the shuttle can withstand the issue with the forward bulkhead as its only weak point. She moves on to the next set of four, the centerline latches up by the forward bulkhead.
Quickly, she can see that the gearbox has cracked, hit by the debris.
“Houston, how many latches can we lose?” Vanessa asks. “The shuttle was designed to withstand what level of failure?”
She looks down the line to the final set of four latches, all the way at the forward bulkhead. She can see, for the second time, that the door is bent.
“Navigator, we believe it is possible that, even with the forward bulkhead latches not lying flat, the orbiter may be able to withstand some unpredictability with the centerline latches.”
“How much? I may have eight latches that do not connect at all, in addition to the gap in the door.”
“Roger that, Navigator. We are calculating.”
Vanessa already knows the answer is not The Shuttle can withstand reentry with eight latches open and a one-centimeter gap at the forward bulkhead.
But if she can get this gearbox to turn and close this gang of four latches, it might pull the payload bay doors tight enough on the aft bulkhead end.
Which means that even if she can’t get the rest of the latches closed, they still have a chance of making it.
She does her best to get a good grip on the ratchet wrench and applies it to the gearbox. But it doesn’t move. She twists as hard as she can, but the harder she tries, the more microgravity pushes her away from the latch, so that she has to brace herself with one arm and one foot against the payload bay door, using her own body as counterforce to keep her leverage. She bears down as hard as she can, pushing against the door with every muscle in her body. She can feel it through her limbs and into her back and abdomen. She tenses her jaw so hard she thinks she might crack a tooth.
It’s not budging.
“Navigator, we believe four latches on the centerline could go unlatched and we would be okay.”
That’s not enough—she’s got eight to go, plus the warped door. She has to get this group of four. Or none of them will survive.
Vanessa tries to leverage the tool in again. Nothing.
She tries again. The same thing.
Again.
And again.
And again.
“Goddammit!” She stops pressing against the door and loses her footing.
She has to pull herself back into position. Fuck.
“Ford, we believe you should move on. Confirm, please.”
Vanessa can’t speak. She will scream.
“Navigator, please confirm you will move on.”
She wants to throw the fucking wrench across the payload bay and take off her helmet and wail. But she needs that tool to get home, if she so much as unlocks her helmet she will die within seconds, and even if she could scream, no one would hear her up here. The sound won’t go anywhere.
“None of these four will close! If I move on, it means I have to secure all the rest, which appear, from here, to be busted. Are you sure I should move on to the last four?”
“Given the time constraints, we believe it is best.”
“Roger that, Houston,” Vanessa says. She closes her eyes and exhales.
She moves to the last group of four, down by the aft bulkhead.
But she’s right. Not only has the door warped in this spot, too, but the torque shaft is damaged.
She fits the ratchet wrench onto the gearbox, but it won’t turn the latches.
She grabs the three-point latch tool and tries to secure each latch individually, but none of them will zip closed. She breathes in and focuses on the first latch of the four. She back-drives the three-point latch tool into the active latch and tries to turn it.
Finally, it turns one millimeter toward her. Her whole body lights up. She pulls harder and harder. Her arm is killing her. Her back aches. She has to keep going.
It turns another millimeter. And then, just as it seems like she might get the latch to catch, the torque shaft cracks further. She closes her eyes.
She just needs the payload bay doors to stay closed upon reentry. Is that so fucking much to ask?
Donna once told her that if one of them had to die, between her and Hank, she hoped it would be her. Vanessa didn’t believe her, but Donna insisted.
“And it’s not for some stupid-ass reason like I can’t live without him,” Donna said. “I can. I did for thirty years before I met the son of a bitch. It’s because he’s the better parent. He loves our baby more. I know you can’t compare love, but I love her so much and he loves her even more, Vanessa.”
Vanessa doesn’t want to think about Donna anymore. But she does want to get Hank’s body home, because every time she went to her father’s gravestone, she knew her father’s body wasn’t really there. And it always mattered to her.
She tries to pull the second latch closed enough to apply the latch tool, but it won’t move.
She slams her glove against her helmet. Again. And again. And again.
“Houston, I don’t know what to do.”
“Navigator,” Joan says. “We are waiting to see if you are able to get the last four latches closed.”
“And if I can’t? What’s the contingency?”
Joan doesn’t speak for a moment. Vanessa has lived so long with this feeling, the full obliteration of everything except Joan’s voice, the need to hang on her every word. “Houston, do you read?”
“We read you, Navigator. We are seeing on our end that all four latches are not closed.”
“I do not believe they will close, Goodwin.”
“Roger that,” Joan says.
“Can the ship survive reentry with eight latches out and two gaps, one each toward the forward and aft bulkheads? By visual assessment, we have at least a centimeter vulnerability along the centerline.”
It’s quiet again. But Vanessa understands it all perfectly. Joan does not want to lie to her.
“Navigator,” Joan says after a while, in a tone that is terrifyingly firm.
“We are not confident that the shuttle is viable with that many latches out.
We do not believe it will withstand the heat of reentry. We need you to start from the beginning again, tightening each latch as much as possible, starting with the forward bulkhead latches. We believe that some degree of tightening
at the beginning will offer significant potential to pull the doors back into alignment.”
Vanessa’s heart begins to race. “Houston, if I start over and try to tighten each latch again, we are going to miss our deorbit opportunity.”
“Navigator, that is correct.”
“Can Griff and Lydia make it another rev?” Vanessa asks.
She is met with silence.
“Houston, do you read? When is the next deorbit opportunity? Will Griff and Lydia make it if we miss this one?”
“Navigator,” Joan says finally. “We need to update you about the crew.”
There is a sense of agony within Mission Control—no one is saying very much. Jack is standing right behind her, and Antonio is standing to the side of the entrance. Everyone else is slumped in their seats. Joan cannot bear to meet anyone’s eye.
“Which one of them is it, Goodwin?” Vanessa asks, her voice rising.
Joan can’t get the words out of her mouth.
“Is it Griff or Lydia?” Vanessa asks again.
Griff had once told Joan that he had worried he’d peaked too early. That he’d been too popular in high school. And didn’t that mean that it was all downhill from there? Joan had laughed and put her head on his shoulder.
“Maybe you’re just going to keep getting better,” she’d said. “Did you ever think of that?” “No,” he’d said. “I don’t buy it.”
“It’s Griff,” Joan says into her headset. “He died seventeen minutes ago.”
Vanessa says nothing.
“Ford . . .” Joan says. “We’re so sorry.”
I’m so sorry. I’m so scared of what happens next.
“Goodwin,” Vanessa says, finally. “Are you okay?”
“I . . . I . . .” Joan remembers herself. “No, I am not. All of us here on the ground are heartbroken. But we are, at this moment, most concerned about how to support you in the objective to land the shuttle in an attempt to get all
surviving astronauts home.”
Vanessa does not respond.
The seconds unfold, one after another. Seconds they do not have.
But then Vanessa’s voice comes through: “He was one of the best astronauts we have,” she says.
Joan tries to maintain her composure. “Affirmative” is all she can choke out.
“If I keep working on the doors,” Vanessa says, “what will happen to Lydia?”
Joan looks to Ray, who frowns. Then she turns to Jack. He nods at her.
“Navigator, Edwards is our last opportunity until we have a shot at KSC, twelve hours after.”
“Copy that, Houston. How much time does Lydia have?” Vanessa asks.
“We can’t lie to her about this,” Jack says.
Joan nods.
“Tell her,” he says. “It’s time.”