If you’re an over-30, you probably remember the morning of 28 January 1986. I certianly do–I was still in college in Daytona Beach. Non-Floridians assume that Florida is always a warm, sunny paradise, year round. Well, not exactly–Central and North Florida can get quite cold, as witnessed that cold January day.
When I got ready to head to class, the temperature seems to be subzero–remember, I’m from South Florida, and at the time didn’t tolerate cold very well. In contrast, my roommate at the time was a Michigander, who didn’t think it was all that cold, and therefore refused to run the heat. I figured that I’d be a school most of the day anyway, so I got ready, had something to eat, and left.
By that time, launch apathy had set in–again–with the general public. We were aware there was a launch scheduled, but didn’t think much of it since they’d done this a few times before with no issues. I got to school, ran some errands, and headed off to class, which was an electronics lab. We were in the middle of our lesson for the day when someone remembered the launch. We all filed outside and waited. It seemed to be even colder than it was when we all arrived. From Daytona Beach, you can get a fair view of the launches, especially the exhaust plumes from the solid boosters.
“There it is”, someone called out. We all panned our eyes to the spot he was indicating, and sure enough, there was the cotton-like plume, topped by small dots of orange flame. Once we locked on, we tracked the plume skyward. Everything looked like the previous times we had watched, but them something strange happened–the plume split into two. Those two snakes of smoke started to gyrate wildly through the sky, tracing individual paths curling around what had been the trajectory of the vehicle. We quickly went inside to catch the news on the radio.
“Flight controllers here looking very carefully at the situation…Obviously a major malfunction. We have no downlink.” Those were the words we heard from Steve Nesbitt, NASA’s Public Affairs officer. Bits and pieces started to circulate–had the Shuttle exploded? No, someone said, it managed to escape and ditch. Sure? No, nobody was sure–of anything. Seeing as a major historical event was unfolding before us, we quickly finished up with the day’s labs and headed home.
I reached the apartment and flipped the TV on–and turned on the heat, too, much to the later chagrin of my roommate. Now, back in 1986, if you didn’t have cable you had limited news sources–NBC, ABC, CBS, and PBS. The NBC affiliate (WESH) was usually the better of the group in Central Florida at the time, so I parked it there for a while. Slowly, the details began to be discovered. At some point, around 70 seconds into the launch, the shuttle stack had either exploded or had broken up. Why? At the time, concerns were placed on the fact that the vehicle had reached Max Q, or maximum aerodynamic forces. Had these forces broken the ship apart? Then, word got out that maybe the external tank had ruptured, causing the fireball. The one thing all of the news outlets knew for certain was that the stack–orbiter, solid boosters, and external tank–had disintegrated in mid air, and the crew, while not recovered, was now feared dead.
The day ran in slow motion. Like most things of this nature, the reports became repetitive. Even switching between the networks got to the point of being pointless. By that evening, more details were known–the vehicle had broken up, the crew was dead, and nobody knew anything beyond that. The nation went into mourning for the group of astronauts now known as “The Challenger Seven”.
As time wore on, investigations would turn up the smoking gun in the form of O-Rings, flexible donuts of rubber or synthetic material used to seal the joints between sections of the solid boosters. While that was shocking enough, the other shoe soon dropped–the manufacturer of the booster knew that the O-Rings were having reliability issues, and knew that cold temperatures exacerbated the situation. Awash in criticism, NASA could ill-afford another delayed launch, so collectively–and in some cases, reluctantly–the launch was given the okay.
Every year I recall with great clarity the events of that cold January day. Every year I wonder what would have happened had the launch been delayed. But, history has a way of making one wonder.
This week, remember not only the Challenger Seven, but the crew of the Shuttle Columbia who died almost 17 years to the day later on 1 February 2003 when the orbiter broke up on reentry. Remember the three astronauts of Apollo 1, who died fifty years ago yesterday in a fire during a pre-lauch test. Remember, too, those astronaut candidates who died before they ever reached space–men like Elliot See and Charlie Bassett who died when their T-38 crashed at the McDonnell aircraft plant in St. Louis. There were others who pushed the limit, too–men like Michael Adams, who died in a crash of the X-15. They all dreamed big….
Thanks for reading. Be good to one another, and I bid you peace.