Rounding Up the Runaways

By Natalie Angler

For the first time ever, astronauts snare two errant satellites in space

For a few hours against the crisp backdrop of space, the rompin', stompin' show was something like Sir Lancelot Goes to the Rodeo. Bracing his "stinger" spear against his stomach and gently using the thrusters on his $15 million jet-powered backpack like spurs on a well-trained cow pony, Astronaut Joe Allen rode easily into position beside the silvery dragon, or maybe it was a bull: Palapa-B2, the 9-ft.-high communications satellite with a mast and dish antenna atop. He crept up on the rotating cylinder and then pierced its engine nozzle with his stinger. Reported Allen: "O.K., I'm penetrating." Linked to the satellite, he began spinning along with it after he locked his spear in place. "Dock, dock," he muttered. He fired his thrusters and at last brought the ornery satellite to a halt. "Stop the clock!" he exulted. "I've got it tied!"

Allen was off on the most spectacular, most difficult and most wildly successful operation ever attempted in the increasingly workaday world of space. From launch to touchdown, last week's salvage mission was meticulously planned and scientifically ornate, incorporating the efforts of NASA's technical staff, together with several dozen outside engineers.

Yet for all the preparations, blueprints and complex hardware, it was finally the human in the loop that made the difference, the man in the bulky space suit who improvised when perfect schemes fell through; without the astronauts, the twin satellites might still be drifting in darkness, orphans of the cosmos. Said one astronaut watching from earth: "As usual, it was good old Yankee ingenuity." Indeed, what with all that ingenuity, plus flawless deployments of two new communications instruments and a remarkable lack of space sickness among the crew of four men and one woman, the 14th shuttle mission can be considered the best yet.

That triumph, however, had its beginnings in a flub. Last February the Indonesian government's Palapa-B2 and Western Union's Westar6 satellites, each worth about $35 million, were launched from the shuttle Challenger. Almost at once something went wrong with the PAMS (payload assist modules), the rockets designed to boost the satellites to a geosynchronous orbit 22,300 miles above earth. The aluminum drums were stranded in a useless elliptical path that ranged from 195 to 828 miles up. The incident badly dented the space agency's pride and reputation. Almost immediately after the satellites were lost, NASA vowed to rescue them.

The deadline for completing the project was tight. From the moment the green light was given, engineers and others on the project began to put in 90-hour work weeks--figuring, designing, double-checking and, as it turned out, sometimes starting over. At the same time, NASA was preparing for another rescue, the repair in space of the Solar Maximum Mission scientific satellite damaged in 1980. The space agency set out to fix the sophisticated $75 million instrument on the eleventh shuttle flight last April. But Astronaut George Nelson was unable to grasp the Solar Max with a device mounted on the arms of his backpack. An alternate technique worked, but the failed grappler plan had to be abandoned. In June, Astronaut Dale Gardner, who would be part of last week's mission, sketched out an alternative idea on the back of an envelope. The now famous stinger was born.

Solar Max had been built with retrieval in mind; it had a grappling pin in the middle of its belly. Palapa-B2 and Westar6 are of the old-fashioned expendable variety, with smooth sides and no handles. The stinger, measuring 64 in. and consisting of a pole mounted on a round base, solved the problem neatly. It would inject an expanding prong into the satellite's rear motor, locking on to it and providing a grip for the wrangler-astronauts. As Allen explained, "It's like opening an umbrella inside a chimney." In practice sessions Allen could not reach the handle to "open" the umbrella. Another redesign was needed. It was now August.

A relatively experienced crew had been chosen for the critical mission. Commander Frederick Hauck, 43, had been the pilot of the seventh shuttle flight. Allen flew on the fifth voyage, when he had been unable to take a scheduled space stroll. Gardner, 36, who had been on the eighth mission, would accompany Allen on the rescue space walk. Only Pilot David Walker, 40, and Anna Fisher, 35, were rookies. In a program that trumpets its firsts, Fisher was proudly presented as the first mother in space; married to another astronaut, William Fisher, she gave birth to Daughter Kristin in July 1983.

The crew's involvement in mission planning was not limited to the stinger. Hauck suggested that the shuttle close to within 35 ft. of the satellites, instead of the 200-ft. distance maintained with Solar Max. The reason: to save the backpack's propulsion fuel. Meanwhile, ground controllers made plans to slow the satellites' spin from 22 to two rotations a minute. They prepared to send signals, putting the two satellites in the same orbital plane, 690 miles apart.

As the launch date approached, the sense of exhilaration quickened. "It was put together in a hell of a hurry," said Pilot Walker with apparent delight. On the appointed day, turbulent winds of up to 80 m.p.h. at high altitude postponed the liftoff from Cape Canaveral. But nearly everything that NASA could control, it did. When the weather calmed down the next morning, the black-and-white bird threaded skyward only 70 milliseconds late. The one-day delay meant that the launch came on Gardner's birthday, and he promised "not to blow out the candle until 8 1/2 minutes into the flight," when the main engines shut down.

Without the gremlins that often occur hours after liftoff, the astronauts had a fairly lax schedule the first three days. They easily dispatched two satellites, one for the Department of Defense, one for Canada, and initiated a crystal-growing experiment for the 3M Co. In the virtual weightlessness of space, crystals can be created that are many times purer than those grown on earth; such delicate molecules might be useful for electronics, imaging and healthcare technology.

Mostly, however, the crew prepared for the satellite roundup. With the confidence of a man who has logged 4,000 flying hours, Mission Commander Hauck stalked the first canister, pursuing a path that gradually spiraled upward. By 8:30 a.m. Houston time on Monday, on their 66th circuit of the world, the astronauts spied Palapa shimmering in the eerie morning light of space. "Houston, Discovery," crowed Pilot Walker. "The sun is up, and we're ready to go." Swathed in their space suits, Gardner and Allen glided out to meet the satellite. Timing was critical: the men had only seven hours before their oxygen and power supplies would expire, forcing them back inside the shuttle. Gardner swiftly hooked himself into a pair of footholds on the shuttle hull, while Allen jetted off. Free of the mother ship, he became a one-man satellite, a white speck whirling about the blue earth at a speed relative to the ground of 17,500 m.p.h.

Allen's pas de deux with the satellite was a slow, surreal dance of weightlessness. He easily inserted his stinger into the nozzle and, when attached, he fired his jets to stop the satellite's rotation. He then had to turn the satellite around so that Fisher, at the controls of the remote arm, could grab the end of the stinger. Said she: "Give me a little more right yaw." Allen moved the satellite to the right. "Come on in, Anna," he said, as though assisting her on a tight parallel park. "You've got plenty of room."

After a slow but deliberate approach, the giant claw at last clasped its target. "Way to go," cheered Allen. Fisher repaid the compliment by giving him a ride on a cosmic Ferris wheel, as she flipped the satellite over with Allen still attached. Employing a pair of ordinary garden shears, Gardner snipped off the protruding part of antenna at the top so that the satellite would fit completely into the cargo bay. Beamed a pleased NASA spokesman, Steve Nesbitt: "Everything went by the books."

That is, until the pages started falling out. Gardner's next step was to attach a specially built metal frame to the end of Palapa where the antenna had been trimmed. The frame was to serve as a grapple for the arm once the stinger was detached. The arm was then supposed to lower the canister into the cargo bay, where the men would secure it to its berth with trunnions. But a single metal panel on the antenna end of the satellite bulged out an eighth of an inch more than expected. Gardner could no more attach the custom frame than he could screw on a Mason jar lid that is half a size too small for its jar. So as not to waste moments, Walker suggested that they switch to Plan B: manual berthing. Gardner and Allen had repeatedly practiced the alternate maneuver underwater. As Allen once explained about the trickiness of handling aloft a canister 9 ft. long by 7 ft. wide, "It's not heavy, it's massive."

But he was prepared to shoulder the load. Stowing his jet backpack, Allen, who at 5 ft. 6 in. and 125 Ibs. is the smallest male astronaut in the corps, slipped into footholds and prepared to take the satellite from the arm. Allen was to hoist the unwieldy satellite, while Gardner removed the stinger for docking. Gardner detached the lance from the canister quickly enough, but had some trouble putting the stinger away. As expected, bits of carbon floated down from the engine of the satellite, and Gardner had to spend a few moments attaching a special "shower cap." Finally, he needed to put on an adapter ring that would help clamp the satellite to a pallet for the ride home.

For an entire 90 minutes, Allen did not budge. Though keeping his arms above his head in a weightless environment was not difficult, he confessed when asked if he were comfortable, "Not very." His ailment: muscle cramps. The law of inertia repeatedly threatened to take over. A tiny twitch could set the satellite in motion, and once moving, it is hard to stop. Gardner at one point had to jump hi swiftly to keep Palapa from banging against the shuttle's side. When the docking adapter was finally in place, the duo gingerly pushed the satellite into the cargo bay. Exulted Allen as they locked the three trunnions down: "All right, together!" The entire space walk lasted six hours.

The following day, the two space cowboys rested as Hauck chased after Westar-6. Down below, Hughes engineers pored over blueprints of the second satellite to see if it might have the same protruding panel. There was no indication that it did, yet officials suggested that the astronauts abandon the idea of using the frame.

After discussion, crew and ground control agreed to improvise once again and use a human to help, literally, to hold the operation together. Instead of a mechanical claw, Astronaut Allen would be perched on the end of the robot arm, once again drawing the duty of hefting the satellite. Using "Mighty Joe Allen," as one reporter called him, instead of the hook was to prove exceptionally efficient. By Wednesday morning the other rogue canister was in view; an awestruck Gardner exclaimed, "Look at that satellite!" This time it was his turn to sail forth in the Buck Rogers backpack, his body silhouetted against the Gulf of Mexico. And when he, too, easily pierced Westar with his stinger, he radioed over to his partner, "Joe, it's just like you said."

Gardner then slowed the rotation and, much as in the first retrieval, maneuvered the stray toward the arm. There, in a foot restraint, Allen waited to grab the antenna on Westar with his right hand, while his left gripped the antenna support. Gardner cut loose, thrust over to the bay, stored his pack and tethered himself to the cargo bay. Meantime, Fisher gingerly began to reel in Allen and the satellite until Gardner could reach up to remove the stinger. He could then proceed directly to the remaining berthing steps. The only newly tricky part was in keeping the second satellite from banging into the first. "Stop it now, but stop it gently," Gardner cautioned. Answered Allen: "Believe me, brother, there's no other way to stop it."

Even with their caution, the astronauts at one point were 1 hr. 20 min. ahead of schedule. It all went so well that toward the end they slowed down to relax and drink in the views. They completed the rescue in less than six hours. Said a cheery Commander Hauck: "Houston, we've got two satellites locked in the bay."

The biggest financial winners in the successful rescue are the insurers of the satellites. Backers, among them a major underwriter with Lloyd's of London, had paid the bulk of the $180 million claims to Indonesia and Western Union after the satellites had been lost; in addition, they had spent $5.5 million to help pay for the retrieval operation. Now the two foundlings belong to the insurers, who will refurbish them and sell them to any interested bidder. Said Lloyd's Spokesman David Larner of the mood at the insurance association: "Jubilant would not be an exaggeration." Indeed, on confirming the second rescue, Lloyd's management ordered the famed "Lutine" bell rung twice, the insurers' traditional signal of a successful salvage, though normally of a more earthly vessel. The underwriters also awarded Allen and Gardner its silver medal of merit for services performed; only three others have been awarded since World War II.

The jubilation was understandable. The completed mission was an antidote to the generally gloomy picture in the space insurance business: almost $300 million has been paid out in 1984 for satellite losses. Most insurance executives, however, believe that the rescue effort was likely to be a one-shot bargain, an arrangement that temporarily suited NASA, Hughes and the insurers, but one too expensive to be repeated under normal circumstances. Stephen Merrett, chairman of Merrett Syndicates and a member of Lloyd's, could not see "very much hard-nosed value for us." And insurers, who have been boosting space rates dramatically, are getting very hard-nosed. In the future, predicts James Barrett, president of International Technology Inc., insurers will huddle with engineers and NASA officials whenever an important decision about a satellite launch is made.

Whether last week's recovery extravaganza proves to be a forerunner of other rescue, repair or maintenance missions was less important for the moment than the elation of the accomplishment. For now, at least, NASA is afloat in glory. On Friday morning cloudy skies obligingly cleared, enabling Discovery to touch down in Florida. It was only the third time that the shuttle had come home amid the lush swamps of Kennedy Space Center. "A spectacular mission," said Hauck after landing. Before the launch, he had sought to get some perspective on the upcoming task. "It strikes me as a little peculiar that each mission as we fly it seems to be the most difficult, apparently the most difficult. And yet a few months after it's over, in hindsight, it looks so easy as not to be newsworthy any more." Perhaps that is the point, to make more and more in space look easy, commonplace, matter of fact. Discovery and crew were turning the unprecedented into a job that was all in eight days' work. Not only does the space truck deliver, it picks up too.

--By Natalie Angler. Reported by Jerry Hannifin/Kennedy Space Center and David S. Jackson/Johnson Space Center

With reporting by Jerry Hannifin, David S. Jackson